UC-NRLF 


T>    u  c;    n 


LIBRARY 

OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

GIFT    OF 

LU 


Class 


(\ 


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care 
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DANTE 


AND 


COLLECTED  VERSE 


BY 

GEORGE   LANSING   RAYMOND 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

"Knickerbocker     press 
1909 


x>4  t'i 

i     COPYRIGHT,  1909 

BY 

GEORGE  LANSING  RAYMOND 


ttbe  fmfcfterbocfcer  press,  Hew 


CONTENTS. 


DANTE. 

PAGE 

DANTE   .          .          .  .          .          .          .          5 

NOTES  UPON  DANTE  .          .          .          .          .127 


MOUNTAINS  ABOUT  WILLIAMSTOWN. 

GREYLOCK      .         .  .  .          •      145 

BERLIN  MOUNTAIN  .....      150 

WEST  MOUNTAIN      .          .  ...  ,.  .....      157 


PARALLELS  AND  PARABLES. 

THE  LAST  HOME-GATHERING     .          .  171 
MIDNIGHT  IN  A  CITY  PARK         .          .          .          .178 

IDEALS  THAT  WERE           .....  183 

THE  SAILOR'S  CHOICE       .....  184 

AT  THE  PARTING  OF  THE  WAYS          .          .          .  188 

THE  RELIGION  OF  RESCUE         ....  189 

AFTER  THE  LYNCHING       .....  192 

RIGHTING  A  WRONG          .....  196 

SHE  WONDERS  WHY          .....  200 
iii 


188145 


IV  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  WALL-FLOWER          .          .          .          .          .201 

HOMELESS       .......      202 

THE  BLIZZARD          ......      203 

IN  THE  LIFE  BEYOND        .....      204 


SUGGESTIONS  FROM   CHURCH,   STATE  AND 
SOCIETY. 

A  HYMN  FOR  ALL  RELIGIONS  ....  209 
THE  AMERICAN  PIONEER  .  .  .  .211 

GOD  BLESS  AMERICA  .  .  .  .  .214 
To  THE  WIFE  OF  A  PUBLIC  MAN  .  .  .216 
HER  HAUGHTINESS  .....  219 

THE  SOCIETY  LEADER       .  .          .      222 


LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

LOVE  AND  LIFE        ......  227 

SONNETS. 

THE  LEADER  .......  277 

THE  SOLITARY  SINGER      .....  277 

STAKING  ALL  .......  278 

OBSCURITY      .......  279 

INFLUENCE      .......  280 

THE  FINAL  VERDICT  281 


CONTENTS.  V 

PAGE 

THE  CHANCE  THAT  COMES  TO  EVERY  MAN            .  281 

HEREDITY       .......  282 

UNCONSCIOUS  CHARM        .....  283 

IN  THE  ART  MUSEUM        .....  284 

THE  CLIMBER           ....          .          .  284 

SENSE  AND  SOUL     .         .         .          .          .          .  285 

CLASS  AND  CASTE     .         .          .          .          .  286 

THE  FAITH  THAT  DOUBTS           .          „          .          .  287 

BROADENING  THE  OUTLOOK       .          .          .          .  287 

OUR  AFFINITY          ......  288 

MY  ACTRESS    .          .          .          .          .          .          .  289 

THE  FIRST  FASCINATION             ....  290 

THE  LOST  FRIEND    .                               .          .          .  290 

FOR  A  BOOK  MADE  UP  OF  CONTRIBUTIONS  FROM 

AUTHORS  .          .          .          .          .          .291 

FORD'S  GLEN,  WILLIAMSTOWN  ....  292 

PRINCETON  UNIVERSITY   .                    .          .          .  293 

PRINCETON  CEMETERY      .                   ,          .          .  294 

BONAVENTURE  CEMETERY,  SAVANNAH         .         .  294 

THE  GRAVE  OF  GENIUS     .....  295 


SONGS  AND  HYMNS. 

WHERE  DWELL  THE  GODS          ....  299 

ALL  HAIL  THE  GOD.          .....  300 

OH,  NOT  WHAT  LIFE  APPEARS  TO  BE          .          .  302 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

ALL  HAIL  THE  SUN           .....  302 

O  LIFE  DIVINE         ......  3°3 

O  GOD  OF  ALL  THINGS  LIVING            .          .          .  304 

HAIL  TO  THE  HERO  HOME  FROM  STRIFE      .          .  305 

O  SOUL,  WHAT  EARTHLY  CROWN         .          .          .  306 

ALL  HAIL  THE  QUEEN      .....  307 

WE  LIVE  BUT  FOR  BUBBLES      ....  308 

OH,  WHO  HAS  KNOWN      .....  309 

Two  SPRINGS  OF  LIFE       .          .          .          .          •  310 

IN  THE  WORLD  OF  CARE  AND  SORROW         .          .  311 

THE  TRUMPETS  CALL  TO  ACTION         .          .  312 

OH,  WHY  DO  WE  CARE 3J3 

AH,  BOYS,  WHEN  WE  FILL  OUR  GLASSES  .          .  314 

OUR  LIVES  ARE  VAPORS    .....  315 

MONEY  AND  MAN      ......  316 

JUST  THE  THING  HE  THINKS     .          .          .          .  317 

NOT  FREE  TO  ME     .          .          .          .          •          •  320 

A  FAIRY  SONG 322 

LOVE  AND  TRUTH     .          .          .          .          .          •  324 

THE  WORLD  THAT  WHIRLS  FOREVER           .          .  325 

FATHER  OF  OUR  SPIRITS,  HEAR  Us              .          .  327 


DANTE. 


I    Ut  TY   } 


CHARACTERS. 


DANTE  (Alighieri) 
(Guido)  CAVALCANTI 


CINO  (a  Pistoja) 

DINO  (Frescobaldi) 

(Cosmo)  DON  ATI 
SIMONE  (Donati) 
(Brunetto)  LATINI 

BEATRICE  (Portina) 
GEMMA  (Donati) 

BACCHINA 


The  Great  Italian  Poet. 

A  Poet  and  Patron  of  Dante, 
about  ten  years  older  than  he ; 
a  Leader  of  the  White  Fac 
tion. 

A  Poet  and  Friend  of  Dante, 
but  somewhat  younger  than 
he;  a  Member  of  the  White 
Faction. 

A  Poet  and  Friend  of  Dante, 
about  the  same  age  as  he;  a 
Member  of  the  White  Faction. 

The  Leader  of  the  Black  Fac 
tion,  and  Dante's  Enemy. 

Son  of  Cosmo  Donati,  and 
Dante's  Enemy. 

An  aged  Teacher  of  Florence, 
much  respected  by  Dante  and 
his  Friends. 

A  Young  Maiden,  greatly  beloved 
by  Dante. 

A  Young  Maiden,  Niece  of 
Cosmo  Donati,  who  became 
Dante's  Wife. 

A  Young  Maiden,  a  companion 
of  Beatrice  and  Gemma. 
3 


4  DANTE. 

MARQUIS  OP  MALASPINA  in  Lunigiana,  a  Protector  of 

Dante  in  exile. 

WAITRESS,  PRIEST,  MONK,  MESSENGERS,  ATTENDANTS, 

CHAPERON,  YOUNG  MEN,  MAIDENS,    AND   ADHERENTS 

of  the  White  and  Black  Factions. 

Place  and  Time,  Florence  and  Italy  in  the  Fourteenth 
Century. 

All  the  men  in  the  play  who  are  not  ecclesiastics 
wear  belts  from  which  hang  scabbards  holding  swords. 


A  poet  like  a  poem  is  a  product. 

DANTE,  I.  AND  VI. 

All  the  thoughts 

That  flood  the  world  spring  up  from  single  souls; 
And  some  of  these  may  bless  it  most  when  made 
To  spend  their  lives  interpreting  themselves. 

IDEM  II. 


DANTE. 


OPENING  TABLEAU. 

The  Piazza  di  Santa  Croce  in  Florence,  Italy. 
Backing  is  ike  Church  of  Santa  Croce.  In  front 
of  it  are  the  beginnings  of  a  Pedestal.  On  the 
highest  part  of  this,  accompanied  by  others  below 
her,  with  whom  she  is  playing,  is  a  young  girl 
(BEATRICE)  dressed  in  a  dark  crimson  frock. 
Below,  on  the  pavement  gazing  at  her,  stands  a 
schoolboy  (DANTE),  who  seems  to  have  been 
suddenly  arrested  and  charmed  by  her  appearance. 1 

ACT  FIRST. 

SCENE  : — The  Piazza  di  Santa  Croce  in  Florence, 
arranged  for  a  Fete,  as  on  St.  John's  Day, 
when,  to  quote  from  Federn's  Dante,  "the 
young  men,  clad  in  white,  led  by  the  Signer 
d 'Amour ',  went  singing  and  dancing  up  the 
street  of  Santa  Felicita;  and  women  and  girls, 
.  .  .  in  wreaths  of  flowers,  partook  in  the  fes 
tivities;  and  music  and  song  and  ringing  bells 
5 


6  DANTE. 

filled  the  air  with  joyful  sounds."  Backing  at 
the  Right,  is  a  bench,  at  the  Left,  half-way  to  the 
Front,  is  a  booth  arranged  for  the  fete.  In  it 
is  a  table  on  which  are  flowers,  apparently  for 
sale,  also  at  least  one  bottle  of  wine  and  three 
glasses.  Entrances  at  the  Right  Front  and 
Upper,  and  at  the  Left  Front  and  Upper.  The 
Curtain,  as  it  rises,  reveals,  at  the  Back  Center, 
the  aged  Teacher  LATINI,  surrounded  by  three 
young  men, — CAVALCANTI,  about  thirty  years 
of  age,  and  CINO  and  DINO,  about  twenty.  The 
three  hold  in  their  hands  pencils  and  manu 
scripts  which  can  be  easily  carried  in  their 
pockets.2  Behind  the  table,  stands  a  matron 
serving  as  a  Waitress  in  the  fete. 

LATINI.     A  poet  like  a  poem  is  a  product. 

CINO.     I  thought  him  born,  not  made. 

LATINI.  And  why  not  both? 

Let  nature  frame  a  man  to  feel.     He  thinks 
Of  what  he  feels.     He  feels  what  touches  him. 
The  substance  of  his  thought  and  feeling  then 
Is  what  experience  has  brought  near  to  him. 

CINO.     But  men  term  youth  poetic. 

LATINI.  Rightly  too. 

The    freshest    fires   are    brightest.     But    our 
thoughts, 


DANTE.  7 

How  e'er  they  burn  and  melt,  not  often  flow 

To  moulds  of  nature's  rarest  imagery, 

Till  life  has  been  well  sought  to  find  and  store 

it. 
CINO.     Then  youth  should  wait  for  age,  and  grow 

apace, 

And  try  no  more. 

LATINI.  O  no;  it  is  our  trying 

That  turns  the  latch-key  of  experience, 
Whose  doors  swing  inward  quite  as  oft  as 
outward. 

Enter — Left  Upper — Several  Pairs  of  danc 
ing  YOUNG  MEN  and  MAIDENS.  They 
sing: 

How  green  the  grove  and  blue  the  sky  I 

How  gold  and  red  the  hedges! 
How  thrills  the  breeze  with  trills  on  high, 

That  breathe  the  season's  pledges! 
For,  O,  the  spring,  in  all  its  prime, 
Has  brought  the  bird  its  mating-time. 

Enter — Right  Upper — DANTE. 
Exeunt — Right  Front — DANCERS. 
Enter — Left  Upper — GEMMA  and  BACCHINA, 
and    between    them    BEATRICE.3      The 
three  walk  arm  in  arm,  and  exchange 


8  DANTE. 

bows    with    the    Gentlemen,    BEATRICE 
taking  especial  notice  of  DANTE. 
CINO    (to   DINO,    as  he  looks   toward  the  three). 

A  trinity  appropriate  for  St.  John's  Day! 
DINO.     The  poet's  graces ! 
CINO  (moving  toward  the  three). 

And  the  poet's  models. 
They  bring  us  dies,  when  our  ideas  glow, 
To  leave  their  impress  and  remain  ideals. 
DANTE,     upon     seeing     BEATRICE,     seems 
greatly  embarrassed,  and   sits   apart  by 
himself  on  the  Bench  alternately  writing 
in  a  manuscript  that  he  holds,  and  listen 
ing  to  the  conversation  of  the  others. 7 
BEATRICE  (to  LATINI).     We  come  to  tender  you 

our  morning  greeting. 
CAVALCANTI  (to  DINO).     Nor  could  the  tender 

come  more  tenderly. 
LATINI    (shaking    hands    with    the    three    young 

women).     I  thank  you. 

BACCHINA  (turning  to  DINO).     Will  you  recom 
mend  me  now? 
DINO.     For  what? 
BACCHINA.  Why,  if  a  king's  touch  cure 

king's  evil, 

A  master's  touch  should  cure  the  master's  evil. 
DINO.     And  what  is  that? 


DANTE.  9 

BACCHINA  (looking  toward  L  AT  INI).     All  evil  in 

the  world, 

To  him,  is  lack  of  culture. 
DINO.  „  So  you  seek 

To  come  in  touch  with  him? 
BACCHINA   (laughingly).     And  with  his  pupils. 
(Giving   her  hand  to   DINO.     Both   join   in   the 

dance  that  follows.) 

Enter — Right  Upper — Pairs  of  Dancing  YOUNG 
MEN  and  MAIDENS.     They  Sing: 

How  keen  the  glance,  and  bright  the  flush! 

How  sense  the  soul  resembles! 
How  throbs  the  heart  that  heed  would  hush 

Through  lips  where  music  trembles! 
For,  O,  the  spring  of  round  and  rhyme 
Has  brought  mankind  its  mating- time! 

Exeunt — Left  Front — DANCERS. 

Enter — Left  Upper — DON  ATI. 

CINO  and  DINO  talk  with  GEMMA  and  BACCHINA. 

CAVALCANTI   (to  BEATRICE).     You  heard  what 

Cino  said.     It  all  was  true. 
The  hands  of  beauty  when  they  touch  and 

thrill  us 

All  leave  their  imprint  on  ideas,  and  thus 
We  get  ideals. 

BEATRICE  (laughingly).     You  poets  wing  your 
words 


io  DANTE. 

Without  the  least  conception  where  they  wend, 
Like   birds  with  broken   feet  that  keep  on 

flying 

From  simple  inability  to  perch. 
DONATI.     Ha,  ha! 

CAVALCANTI  (to  DONATI).     You  heard  her  then? 
DONATI.  I  overheard. 

CAVALCANTI  (aside  to  DINO). 

Is  always  overing  something,  if  he  can  be. 
DONATI   (to   BEATRICE).     Well   said,   Miss   Be 
atrice  !     These  flighty  minds 
That  cut  connection  with  the  world's  demands 
Are  sure  to  have  a  limping  time  of  it, 
If  ever  they  get  down  to  useful  work. 

(BEATRICE  laughs  and  bows,  then  with 
CINO  joins  GEMMA  and  BACCHINA  at 
the  Left  where  all  seem  to  be  helping  the 
Matron  who  has  charge  of  the  Table. 
DINO  sits  on  the  Bench  beside  DANTE. 
They  exchange,  and,  apparently,  in  a 
friendly  way,  criticise  each  other's 
writings)* 

CAVALCANTI  (replying  to  DONATI'S  last  remark). 
They  may  prove  useful  without  getting  down 
As  far  as — 5 

DONATI.  Useful  as  the  splash  and  spray 

Above  the  waterfall  that  works  my  mill. 


DANTE.  II 

CAVALCANTI.     They  play  a  necessary  part. 
DONATI.  You  own 

They  play? 

CAVALCANTI.          --      And  play  is  necessary  too. 
Our  thoughts  are  children  that  must  play  to 

grow. 
DONATI.     Say  children  that  when  called  to  work 

must  whine. 

These  brains  that  bellow  so  about  their  pains, 
Prove  mainly  their  own  lack  of  brawn  to  bear 

them. 
CAVALCANTI.     At  least,  they  lead  a  peaceful  life, 

not  so? — 

And  that  is  better  than  a  life  of  brawls. 
DONATI.     Who  lead  a  life  of  brawls? 
CAVALCANTI.  I  did  not  say; 

But  many  a  night  in  Florence  is  termed  black. 
DONATI.     And  many  a  coward's  face   is  well 

termed  white. 
CAVALCANTI  (drawing  his  sword,  which  DONATI 

also  does). 
Now  by  my  sword! 

CINO.  Nay,  nay;  but  by  your  sense. 

What  fevers  both  of  you  is  no  disease 
That  can  be  cured  by  surgery. 
CAVALCANTI.  By  what  then? 


12  DANTE. 

CINO  (pointing  to  the  table,  and  rapidly  piling 

three  glasses  from  the  bottle}. 
By  stimulants.     Accurse  to  cutting  down, 
When  one  can  gulp  down!     Save  your  health 

for  me, 
And,   while   you   sheathe  your  swords,    pledge 

gratitude 

For  such  delicious  ways  of  sheathing  spirits. 
(DON ATI  and  CAVALCANTI  sheathe  their  swords 

and  drink  with  CINO.) 

Exeunt — Left     Upper — CAVALCANTI,    DON- 
ATI,  and  CINO  with  glasses  in  hand,  fol 
lowed  by  the  Waitress  carrying  the  bottle. 
(DiNO,  when  he  sees  them,  excusing  himself  to 
DANTE,  rises  and  follows  them.} 

Exit — Left  Upper — DINO. 
GEMMA  (to  BEATRICE,  looking  toward  the  Left}. 

Ha,  ha! 

BEATRICE.     What  set  you  laughing? 
GEMMA.  Why,  to  think 

My  uncle's  words  could  turn  a  poet's  thought 
Out  of  his  own  conceit — humph ! — long  enough 
To  take  in  the  conception  of  another. 
BEATRICE.     You  like  not  poets  then ? 
BACCHINA.  They  like  not  her. 

GEMMA.     They  might,   if  they  could   see  me. 
What  they  see 


DANTE.  13 

Is  never  in  the  thing  at  which  they  look; 
But,  like  a  halo  when  it  rings  the  moon, 
All  in  the  clouds,  and  drawn  there  by  them 
selves. 
BEATRICE.     Break  through  the  halo,  you  might 

find  them  out. 

BACCHINA.     Or  else  be  found  out  by  them. 
GEMMA.  That  is  it; 

And    by-and-by    come    tumbling    from    the 

hights 

Where  they,  not  we,  have  put  us, — in  a  realm 
Where  pebbles  all  seem  palaces,  and  mounds 

all  mounts, 
And  clouds  all  continents,  and  moons  have 

faces, 

And  all  the  littlest  stars  that  prick  the  sky 
Are  spear-points  of  some  huge  hobgoblin. 
BEATRICE.     To  think  things  larger  may  enlarge 

one's  thought. 
GEMMA.     To  think  things  true  when  false  may 

prove  all  false. 
BEATRICE.     Who  think  the  poets'  fancies  true? 

Their  brains, 

Like  helmets  when  their  metal  is  the  best, 
Receive  the  light  of  life  and  flash  it  back. 
None  take  the  flash  for  fire. 


14  DANTE. 

GEMMA.  I  see  you  like 

A  fancy,  flashing  fellow! — I  the  grave 
And  thoughtful. 

BEATRICE.  Fancy  is  the  flower  of  thought. 

The  more  of  life  there  is,  the  more  of  flower: 
The  more  of  thought  there  is,  the  more  of 

fancy. 

A  bear,  you  know,  has  hair  upon  his  cheek, 
And  growls,  and,  now  and  then,  stands  up  and 

hugs. 

I  like  men  who  can  prove  themselves  no  brutes. 
(DANTE  sits  staring  at  BEATRICE.) 

Enter — Left  Upper — DON  ATI. 
DONATI  (noticing  DANTE  and  addressing  him). 

Why,  Dante,  you  here?6 
DANTE  (rising  in  embarrassment}.     Yes. 
DONATI    (shaking   hands   with    DANTE).     Good 

day. 
GEMMA    (aside   to    BEATRICE    and   BACCHINA). 

His  "yes" 

Outsnubs  the  backset  of  a  tutor's  "no,"— 
Forbids  all  further  effort  at  expression. 
DONATI    (to    DANTE    and   gesturing   toward   the 

YOUNG  WOMEN). 

You  know  these  ladies,  do  you  not? 
DANTE  (bowing  awkwardly).     Yes,  yes.7 


DANTE.  15 

DONATI.     What  writing  is  it  that  you  hold  in 

hand? 
(DANTE  closes  his  manuscript,  and  puts  it  inside 

his  cloak.} 
A  secret? 
DANTE  (bowing  awkwardly}.     Yes. 

Exit — Left  Upper — DONATI,  laughing. 

Enter— Right  Upper— CINO. 
(CiNO  and  DANTE  sit  on  the  Bench  and  exchange 

writings*} 

GEMMA  (to  YOUNG  WOMEN  at  the  Left,  and  re- 
ferring  to  DANTE'S  manuscript.} 

His  own  child,  probably ! 
It  flies  to  cover  so  much  like  himself. 
He  is  a  very  interesting  man. 
BEATRICE.     You  think  so? 
GEMMA.  To  himself.     When  all 

one's  eyes 

And  ears  are  turned  like  his  on  his  own  person, 
He  bears  about  both  audience  and  actor. 
Enter — Left    Upper — Several  Pairs  of   Dancing 
YOUNG  MEN  and  MAIDENS.     They  sing: 

How  framed  in  grace  and  phrased  in  song, 

How  homed  in  rapture  real, 
How  won  to  worth  from  earth  and  wrong 

Is  love  when  once  ideal! 


1 6  DANTE. 

For,  O,  the  spring  of  life  sublime 
Has  brought  the  spirit's  mating-time ! 

Exeunt — Right  Front — DANCERS. 

Enter — Left  Front — CAVALCANTI. 

CAVALCANTI   (to  BEATRICE).     My  gentle  maid, 

Miss  Beatrice,  not  dancing? 
BEATRICE.     Not  now,  rough  master  Cavalcanti. 
CAVALCANTI.  Oh! 

BEATRICE.     Oh? — We   must   speak  as   we   are 

spoken  to ; 

And  if  I  be  a  maid  and  gentle  also 
You  ought  to  be  my  master  and  be  rough. 
CAVALCANTI.     Be  rough? — Oh,  never.     I  leave 

that  to  Dante. 

BEATRICE.     I  should  think  so! 
CAVALCANTI.  Wait,  Miss  Beatrice. 

A  man  may  double  up  his  fist  and  frown, 
And  make  fiend-faces  merely  at  himself. 
BEATRICE.     Why  so? 
CAVALCANTI.     Because  that  self  asserts  itself; 

And  he  keeps  fighting  it  to  keep  it  down. 
BEATRICE.     That  self  must  then  be  very  strong. 
CAVALCANTI.  It  is — 

In  Dante. 

BEATRICE.     Humph! — Is    that    what    troubles 
him? 


DANTE.  17 

Enter — Right  Upper — DINO. 
CINO  rises,  leaves  DANTE,  and  goes  to  meet 
DINO,  where  standing  at  the  Right  they 
also     seem^.  to     criticise    each     other's 
manuscripts* 
CAVALCANTI.     It  is  with  you.     You  have  such 

awful  eyes. 

They  hush  him  so  his  inward  soul  stops  think 
ing; 

And  then  his  outward  rnien  plays  pedagogue 
And  whips  himself  to  make  himself  behave. 
BEATRICE.     A  very  strange  man! 
CAVALCANTI.  You  should  not  say  that. 

Just  think  how  hot  he  must  be  in  his  heart 
To  make    him   warp   and   shrink  up   as   he 

does 

When  you  come  near. 
BEATRICE.  He  does  not  act  that  way 

With  others? 
CAVALCANTI.     No. 
BEATRICE.  Some  people  act  that  way 

With  cats.     Kind  souls  then  shoo  these  off. 
BEATRICE   joins   GEMMA   and   BACCHINA,    andt 

presently, 

Exeunt — Left    Front— GEMMA,    BEATRICE,    and 
BACCHINA. 


18  DANTE. 

DINO  (looking  at  the  YOUNG  WOMEN,  to  CINO). 
A  poet  has  to  pose,  to  prose  himself 
Sufficiently  for  some  companionship. 
CINO.     To  one  who  wed  her,  she  would  prove 

to  be 

A  pretty  but  a  pert  Lupatto-dog, 
And  snarl  at  all  who  did  not  master  her. 
DINO  (looking  sharply  at  DANTE). 

But  why  does  Dante  gaze  at  Gemma  so? 
Finds  her  inspiring? — I  would  rather  risk, 
Without  a  disenchanting  yell  or  yolp, 
Extracting  teeth  than  thought  from  such  a 
mouth. 

Exeunt — Right  Front — CINO  and  DINO. 
DANTE  (rising    and    speaking    to   CAVALCANTI, 

who  has  approached  him). 
Say,  Cavalcanti,  did  you  hear  those  words? — 
"Why  does  he  gaze  at  Gemma?" — did  you 

hear? 

Say,  Cavalcanti,  did  you  hear? — "at  Gemma"? 
They  must  imagine — 8 

CAVALCANTI.  Yes,  they  must  imagine. 

They  never  could  have  seen  it  with  their  eyes. 
DANTE.     Seen  what? 
CAVALCANTI.  Now,  Dante,  I  have  made  no 

claim 
To  be  your  soul's  confessor;  but  you  know 


DANTE.  19 

That  I  have  guessed  to  whom  you  wrote  your 
verses ; 

And  you  have  not  denied  it. — Was  it  Gemma  ? 
DANTE.     The  next" time  that  men  watch  me, 

they  shall  think  so.8 
CAVALCANTI.     And  why? 

DANTE.     No   doubt,  no  thought!     What  men 
conceive 

They  comprehend,  they  cease  to  guess  about. 
CAVALCANTI.     Would  you  deceive  them? 
PANTE.  What  men  have  no  right 

To  know,  one  has  no  right  to  let  them  know. 

Because  my  soulless  will  has  made  me  brute, 

And  kept  me  staring  like  a  pointer-cur 

As  if  to  turn  to  prey  the  very  one 

I  most  revere,  must  then  my  voice,  forsooth, 

Bark  out  an  insult  in  the  same  direction? 
CAVALCANTI.     I  did  not  say  that,  boy;  but  it 
were  strange 

To  see  you  start  to  play  the  very  game 

That  you  blame  me  for. 
DANTE.  Nay,  I  should  not  say 

My  love  sought  more  than  one. 
CAVALCANTI.  Nor  I,  you  know — 

Were  it  not  true. 
DANTE.  Oh,  fickle  Cavalcanti! 


20  DANTE. 

CAVALCANTI.     Your  humming  bees  may  sip  the 

sweets  they  need 
From  every  flower;  and  why  not  humming 

poets? 
DANTE.     They   were   not   made   to   sting,    nor 

souls  for  stinging. 

The  poets  are  not  lesser  men  but  greater; 
And  so  should  find  unworthy  of  themselves 
A  word  or  deed  that  makes  them  seem  less 

worthy. 
A    man    should    court    but    one,   and    marry 

her. 
CAVALCANTI.     And  mar  the  lives  of  all  he  does 

not  marry? 
DANTE.     Nay,  nay;  be  true  to  one,  and  let  the 

church— 
CAVALCANTI.     The  church  can  but  confirm  a 

fact  that  is, — 9 

A  love  that  lives  already  in  the  soul. 
Not   outside   hands,    though   reaching   down 

from  heaven, 

Can  push  inside  of  it  what  is  not  there, 
Nor  keep   aught   inside,   wrmld   it  then  pass 

out. 

You  deem  it  wise  or  good,  humane  or  Godly, 
To  doom  a  boy  for  one  mistake  in  mating 
To  everlasting  punishment  on  earth  ? 


DANTE,  21 

Enter — Left  Front — GEMMA. 

Ah,  Mistress  Gemma,  Master  Dante  here 

Was  looking  at  you,  so  that  I  rebuked  him. 
GEMMA.     Was  looking — and  at  what? 
CAVALCANTI.  Why,  I  should  say 

Your  ribbons — things  that  he  could  tie  to. 
DANTE.  Oh! 

CAVALCANTI.     But  that  was  what  we  just  were 
talking  of, — 

A  something  on  the  earth,  and  it  wears  ribbons, 

That  one  can  tie  to. 
GEMMA.  Making  free,  I  think, 

With  my  own  ribbons! 
CAVALCANTI.  No,  no;  making  them 

So  they  would  not  be  free. 

GEMMA.  Yes,  they  might  choke  me. 

DANTE.     And  what  a  pity  that  would  be! 
GEMMA.  Why  so? 

DANTE.     These  choking  throats  make  faces  red. 
GEMMA.  Make  red? 

DANTE.     Yes;  yours  I  never  yet  saw  read.     It 
seemed 

A  readless  riddle. 

GEMMA.  It  could  riddle  you. 

DANTE.     Oh,  no;  you  would  not  judge  enough 
was  in  me 

To  justify  the  jog.     Why  tap  a  void? 


22  DANTE. 

Enter — Right  Front — BEATRICE. 
CAVALCANTI  goes  to  her.     DANTE,  standing 
at  the  Left  with  his  back  to  the  Right, 
does  not  see  her. 
GEMMA  (to  DANTE).     You  may  be  right, — more 

right  than  you  suppose. 
DANTE.     More  right  than  I  suppose? — It  is  not 

often 
One  does  me  so  much  honor. 

(They  continue  talking  at  the  Left.) 
BEATRICE   (to  CAVALCANTI,  while  she  stands  at 
the  Right  looking  at  DANTE). 

Yes,  I  read 

The  song  you  say  that  Dante  wrote  about  me. 
But  were  he  truthful,  did  he  feel  it  all, 
It  were  but  natural  for  him  to  speak 
To  me. 

CAVALCANTI.     He  is  an  artist. 
BEATRICE.  What  of  that? 

CAVALCANTI.     You    know   there    were  no  art, 

were  there  no  forms 

Of  nature  in  which  art  could  frame  its  tribute. 
But  many  an  artist,  for  this  reason,  fears 
To  emphasize  the  part  he  finds  in  nature 
Lest  it  outdo  the  part  he  finds  in  self; 
So  often  that  which  seems  most  natural 
The  one  thing  is  that  he  will  not  let  seem  so. 


DANTE.  23 

BEATRICE  (looking  toward  GEMMA). 

How  smitten  he  is  with  her!  l8 
CAVALCANTI.  Whom — with  Gemma? 

BEATRICE.     Of  course. 
CAVALCANTI.  You  think  so? 

BEATRICE.  See  him  hold 

her  hand. 
CAVALCANTI.     If  your  hand  were  where  hers  is, 

I  believe 
His  own  would  tremble  so  he  could  but  drop 

it. 
GEMMA  (to  DANTE,  while  he  takes  her  hand  as  if 

to  bid  good-bye) . 
But  had  I  no  imagination? 
DANTE.  Then, 

I  could  not  see  my  image  in  you,  could  I? 
And  if — to  quote  you — I  but  think  of  self, 
You  could  not  make  me  think  of  anything. 
GEMMA.     I  could  not  help  you  much  then? 

Exit — Right  Front — BEATRICE. 
DANTE.  No;  not  if 

Myself  be  what  I  think. 

(GEMMA  and  DANTE  bow  to  each  other.) 

Exit — Left  Front — GEMMA. 

(DANTE  takes  his  manuscript  from  his  pockety  and 
begins  to  write.) 


24  DANTE. 

CAVALCANTI  (approaching,  and  laying  his  hand 
on  DANTE'S  shoulder]. 

What  are  you  doing? 
DANTE.     Am  writing. 
CAVALCANTI.  Yes,  I  saw  that. — Writing 

what? 

DANTE.     What  comes  to  me. 10 
CAVALCANTI    (with    a    gesture  toward    the    Left 
Front). 

From  her? 
DANTE.  Yes,  partly 

so;  And  partly  from  myself. 
CAVALCANTI.  You  write  it  down 

To  save  it? 
DANTE.  Yes,  and  save  myself.     You  know 

That  writing  is  my  mission. 10 
CAVALCANTI.  What  was  that 

Which  she  suggested? 
DANTE  (after  hesitating  a  moment).     Why  some 

minds  that  try 

To  be  in  touch  with  ours  but  tickle  them ; 
Or  vex  an  itching  that  can  merely  fret  us. 
Withal,  too,  they  but  scratch  the  brain's  out 
side; 

And  then,  as  if  they  took  the  hair  for  thought, 
Exhibit  this,  when  tossed  and  puffed,  as  prov 
ing 


DANTE.  25 

How  they  themselves  have  thus  our  brain  de 
veloped. 
CAVALCANTI  (laughing  heartily,  then  taking  from 

his  pocket  a  manuscript  poem) . 
No  touch  like  that,  though,  led  you  to  write 

this,  i i 

Why  is  it,  boy,  you  hold  your  love  so  secret? 
DANTE.     Had  you  a  glimpse  of  God  like  no  one 

else's 

You  would  not  speak  of  it? 
CAVALCANTI.  Why  not? 

DANTE.  It  might 

Subject  Him  to  the  insult — might  it  not? — 
Of  human  doubt? 

CAVALCANTI.          You  are  a  strange  soul,  Dante. 
DANTE.     You  think  my  verses  good? 
CAVALCANTI.  Both  good  and  bad. 

DANTE.     Why  bad? 
CAVALCANTI.          Oh,  not  so  fierce!   Not  you  are 

bad; 

And  not  your  verses  when  they  come  from  you. 
DANTE.     From  whom  else  could  they  come? 
CAVALCANTI.  I  seem  to  hear 

The  echoes  through  them  of  your  masters. 
DANTE.  Good  ones! 

CAVALCANTI.     Good  masters  give  us  methods 
but  not  models. 


26  DANTE. 

You  write  as  one  who  rests  in  a  ravine 
Recording  but  what  others  have  beheld 
Above  where  he  dare  venture. 
DANTE.  You  would  have  me? — 

CAVALCANTI.     Climb  up,  or  soar — 
DANTE.  But  how? 

CAVALCANTI.  The  spirit's  wings 

Are  grown,  not  given,  unfold  within  oneself. 
But  you — you  get  both  word  and  thought 

from  others. 

DANTE.     You  mean  my  Latin? 
CAVALCANTI.  Yes,  I  mean  your  Latin. 1 2 

DANTE.     The  words  of  Virgil  and  the  Christian 

Church,— 
The  thoughts  that  live  like  spirits    in    the 

words, 
And  save  our  own  thought  through  what  they 

incarnate ! 
CAVALCANTI.     The  thought    they    save  should 

be  your  own,  my  Dante. 

Are  you  a  Roman?     You  should  be  Italian12 
With  theme  and  language  fitted  for  Italians. 
To  lift  the  lives  of  common  men,  it  is, 
That  poems  make  the  common  seem  uncom 
mon. 

Their  richest  boon,  believe  me,  that  which 
brings 


DANTE.  27 

To  him  who  reads  an  inward  consciousness 
Of  oneness  with  the  spirit  that  indites  them, 
And  its  own  oneness  with  the  loftiest  spirit. 

DANTE.     The  poet's  tool  is  his  poetic  tongue. 

CAVALCANTI.      Tis  not  the  tongue  that  makes 

the  bell  ring  sweet ; 
It  is  the  metal  of  the  bell  itself. 

Enter — Right  Front — MESSENGER. 
(to  MESSENGER.) 
Good  day.     You  seem  excited. 

MESSENGER.  Yes,  I  am. 

Will  never  fate  decree  a  time  of  rest 
For  Florence? 

CAVALCANTI.     Not  while   wide   awake!     What 
now? 

MESSENGER.     A  courier  has  just  come  speeding 

in. 

He  says  the  Ghibellines  take  arms  again,13 
Have  fresh  recruits  enlisted  at  Arezzo, 
Have  fortified  the  castle  at  Caprona, 
And  gather  now  in  force  at  Campaldino. 

DANTE.     And  we  do  nothing? 

MESSENGER.  Yes,  Donati's  Blacks 

Like  flocks  of  feeding  crows  we  pelt  with  peb 
bles 
Are  flying  all  to  saddle. 

DANTE.  We  should  follow. 


28  DANTE. 

CAVALCANTI.     And  follow  him? — no,  no.5 
DANTE.  Not  follow  him?— 

Not  that  great  fighter? 
CAVALCANTI.  What? — you  call  him 

great  ? — 

Mere  bluffer  of  some  baby  brawls  in  Florence  ? 
The  flimsiest  nerve  can  fret  to  feel  a  flea. 
DANTE.     But  those  who  fight  when  no  one  needs 

to  fight — 
CAVALCANTI.     Are  foes  to  public  order. 16    Why, 

you  seem 

To  deem  all  people  patriots  like  yourself. 
A  little  rill  just  starting  from  a  spring 
Could  not  be  quite  so  gushing  fresh  as  you  are ! 
I  love  you,  boy;  but  when  the  rill  has  rubbed 
A  little  more  of  soil  from  both  its  banks 
'T  will  have  more  substance  if  not  quite 
So  much  transparency. 
Enter — Left     Upper — BEATRICE,     GEMMA,    and 

BACCHINA. 

Unseen    by   DANTE,    they    busy    themselves   with 
the  flowers  on  the  table. 

DANTE.  Yet,  Cavalcanti, 

There  is  but  one  thing  now  for  us  to  do. 
Do  two  things,   and  we  do  the  thing  they 
plan, — 


DANTE.  29 

To  fight  both  Black  and  White,  and  each  time 

half 

Our  full  defence.    Now  who  remembers  faction 
Forgets  his  Florence. 
CAVALCANTI.  True ! — and  you  would 

fight? 
DANTE.     For  right  to   serve   the    Church   and 

Italy  ?- 
Fight    those    whose    flags    all    fly    to    signal 

traitors  ? — • 
Fight  those  who  all,  like  base  train-bearers, 

come 

To  smother  down  the  freedom  of  the  city 
Beneath  an   emperor's   cloak  whose   utmost 

edge 
Is  fringed  with  bleeding  spears? — Were  I  a 

moth 
In  a  rug  their  crowd  came  trampling,  I  should 

fight- 
Ay,  with  my  mouth,  too,  as  you  seem  to  ask — 
And  keep  on  fighting  there,  until  I  wrought 
My  way  to  something  that  could  not  be  tram 
pled. 
CAVALCANTI.     All   right,   boy,   you   shall  have 

your  chance.     We  go. 

Exeunt — Right  Front — CAVALCANTI,  DANTE,  and 
MESSENGER. 


30  DANTE. 

Enter — Left  Front — LATINI,  CINO,  and  DINO. 
BEATRICE   (referring  to  DANTE'S  words  that  all 
have  evidently  overheard) . 

And  that  is  Dante ! 
BEATRICE,  GEMMA,  and  BACCHINA  come  toward 

the  Left  Front. 

LATINI.     Yes,  the  actual  Dante. 
BEATRICE.     His  words  and  ways  have  seemed 
so  void  of  grace, 

To  say  not  grit! 
LATINI.  In  temperaments  like  his 

The  form  is  but  the  signal  of  the  spirit. 

We  never  judge  a  flag  by  gawky  flops 

Against  a  wind- forsaken  pole;  but  by 

Its  flying  when  it  feels  the  breath  of  heaven. 
BEATRICE.     He  seemed  a  woman;  now  he  seems 

all  man. 
LATINI.     And  both  are  fit  in  one  ordained  to  be 

A  representative  of  all  things  human. 

If  he  by  nature  be  a  poet,  then 

He  should  by  nature  be  in  substance  that 

Which  art  demands  of  him  in  semblance. 
DINO.  Cino, 

We  should  go  home. 
CINO.  What  for? 

DINO.  To  put  on  kilts, 

And  show  ourselves  half  women. 


DANTE.  31 

LATINI.  Nay,  without  that, 

My  Dino,  you  can  prove  your  womanhood; 

For  who  but  women  take  all  words  to  heart, 

And  think  each  point  we  make  must  point 

toward  them? 

Exeunt — Right  Front — LATINI,  CINO,  and  DINO. 
GEMMA.     He  may  be  right;  but  men  half  done, 
like  eggs 

Half  boiled,  are  very  soft.     I  much  prefer 

To  have  them  hard. 
BACCHINA.  How  strange! 

GEMMA.  Why  strange? 

BACCHINA.  Because 

I  thought  we  always  liked  our  opposites. 1 4 
BEATRICE.     You  mean? 

GEMMA.  Ay,  you  do  well  to  call  her 

mean. 

If  when  we  walk,  we  bring  our  weeds  with  us, 

We  cannot  hope  our  air  to  smell  of  roses. 
BACCHINA.     Aha!  Humph ! — That  explains  it ! 
GEMMA.  What? 

BACCHINA.  The  way 

You  take  in  breath  (tossing  up  her  head  and 

nose) . 
GEMMA.  Look  up,  not  down,  eh? — I 

Would  rather  snatch  at  birds  than  dig  for 
worms. 


32  DANTE. 

BACCHINA.     Have    pity,    Gemma!     Shell   your 

thoughts  before 

You  fling  them  at  us — are  so  hard  to  crack! 
You  surely  would  not  have  them  crack  our 

skulls? 
GEMMA.     Crack  moulds  of  jelly!     Your  skulls 

were  more  soft 

Than  that  to  be  indented  by  a  Dante. 
Enter — Right  Upper — CAVALCANTI  and  DANTE. 
The  YOUNG  WOMEN  are  at  the  Left,  and  do  not 

notice  their  hearers. 
BEATRICE.     A  steed  we  drive,  a  stream  that 

floods  its  banks, 

Has  not  less  force  because  its  gait  is  gentle. 
And  you,  you  heard  his  call  a  moment  since 
To  Cavalcanti  who  behind  him  leads 
The  half  of  Florence !     'T  was  a  call  as  brave 
As  ever  yet  were  eagles',  when  their  beaks 
Tear  out  the  intruder's   heart,  though  twice 

their  size, 
Who  comes  to  steal  the  young  within  their 

nests. 
While  BEATRICE  is  speaking  DANTE  takes  out  his 

manuscript  and  writes. 

Exeunt — Left    Front — BACCHINA,    GEMMA,   and 
BEATRICE. 


DANTE.  33 

DANTE  (to  CAVALCANTI,  referring  to  BEATRICE'S 

words] . 

Ah,  Cavalcanti,  should  my  sword  not  save 
The  soul  within  me,  when  the  strife  comes  on, 
No  welcome  could  await  in  realms  beyond 
So  sweet,  so  sacred,  as  I  just  have  heard!15 

CAVALCANTI.     Stay  here,  boy,  stay!     To  make  a 

worthy  fight, 

A  man  should  put  his  heart  in  what  he  does. 
Your  heart  is  lost.     It  will  be  left  behind  you. 

DANTE.     There,  there,  again,  you  will  not  under 
stand  me. 

CAVALCANTI.     Now  Dante! 

DANTE.        Yes,  you  think  my  heart  would  stay 
When  she  it  is  has  flung  it  toward  the  fight. 
What  love  I  have,  inspires  me  in  my  soul; 
And,  like  the  soul,  it  must  express  itself 
Through  every  fibre  binding  me  to  life ; 
And  like  the  soul,  too,  I  believe  it  comes 
From  some  far  realm  divine  to  make  divine 
Myself,  my  world,  and  all  that  dwell  in  it. 
A  man  who  feels  like  this,  and  would  not  fight 
For  church  and  state  and  home,  would  be  a 
devil. 

CAVALCANTI.     And  how  long,  think  you,  in  a 

world  like  ours, 
That  you  can  feel  like  this? 


34  DANTE. 

DANTE.  As  long  as  love 

Like  what  I  have  inspires  me. 
CAVALCANTI.  Should  it  fail? 

DANTE.     Then  you  nor  anyone  could  longer  find 
In  me  a  friend.     All  any  life  is  worth 
Lies  in  its  possibilities  of  love. 
CAVALCANTI.     But  were  love's  object  lost? — 
DANTE.  One  cannot  lose 

What  is  eternal.     Hearts  must  always  keep, 
If  not  their  love,  what  love  has  made  of  them. 
Enter — Left    Upper — The    YOUNG    MEN    and 
MAIDENS  who  were  the  Dancers  in  the 
earlier  part  of  this  Act;  but  the  MEN  are 
equipped  for  battle   and  walk  seriously 
and  the  MAIDENS  follow  them  with  every 
indication  of  anxiety.     CAVALCANTI  and 
DANTE,  the  latter  putting  his  manuscript 
in  his  pocket,  join  them. 
Exeunt — Right  Front — OMNES. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  SECOND. 

SCENE:  Same  as  in  Act  First,  but  not  arranged 
for  a  fete.  The  rising  curtain  reveals  LATINI, 
DINO  and  other  citizens  of  Florence,  also 

WOMEN. 
Enter — Right  Front — CAVALCANTI  and  CINO. 

LATINI  (shaking  hands  with  CAVALCANTI). 
And  so  you  have  returned  victorious. 

DINO.     Thanks  to  Donati! 

CAVALCANTI.     Thanks  to  him  I  fear. 

DINO     Why  fear  it? 

CAVALCANTI.  One  should  always  fear  the 

hand 

That  taps  a  leaking  jail  to  flood  its  faction.  l 6 
Who  breaks  one  law  may  live  to  break  another. 
This  very  latest  victory  was  gained 
Against  the  orders  on  our  side,  as  well 
As  those  that  they  opposed  upon  the  other. 

DINO.     So  much  the  stronger  he ! 

LATINI.  Beware  of  strength 

That,  like  the  brute's,  is  wielded  not  by  reason. 
Except  by  reason  thought  was  never  forced 
For  its  own  good. 

DINO.  But  if,   in  some  just  cause? — • 

35 


36  DANTE. 

LATINI.     In  lands  where  law  supports  the  right, 

to  seek 

To  rise  by  breaking  legal  barriers 
Is  worse  than  climbing  up  a  dizzy  stair 
By  leaning  on  a  broken  bannister. 
DINO.     You  may  be  right;  but  few  will  think 

you  so. 

The  man  who  tramples  on  his  country's  foes 
Treads    upward    toward    a    hight,    however 

gained, 

Where  all  his  countrymen  look  up  to  him. 
CINO.     And  now  but  one  can  rival  him. 
LATINI.  That  one? 

CINO.     Is  Dante. 
LATINI.  Dante? 

CINO.  Yes,  our  Dante!  Oh, 

You  should  have  seen  him  when  the  battle 

came. 

He  led  the  last  charge,  speeding  on  a  steed l7 
Well  nigh   as   white   as   was  the   air  it   slid 

through, 

His  form  bent  down  as  if  to  hurl  his  head 
Against  their  lines,   and,   by   sheer  force   of 

brain, 

Burst  through  them.     Faster  than  the  follow 
ing  wind 
He  flew,  as  if  the  blast  that  urged  him  on 


f  DANTE.  37 

Were  some  last  trump  of  Gabriel's,  and  the 

soul 

Could  fear  no  ills,  for  it  had  passed  beyond 
them. 

(looking  toward  the  Right  Upper) 
I  think  him  coming  now. 
LATINI.  He  is. 

DINO.  And  with  him 

Comes  Donati. 
CINO.  Watching  well  the  man 

That  brought  him  victory. 

CAVALCANTI.  Too  well,  I  fear! 

You  give  to  one  who  never  gives  to  others, 
He  first  will  recognize  you  as  a  dupe, 
And  then  prepare  to  treat  you  as  a  prey. 
DINO.     They  fought  for  Florence. 
CAVALCANTI.  Dante,  not  Donati. 

He  fights  that  all  may  follow  his  own  standard. 
Enter — Right  Upper — DANTE,  DONATI,  SIMONE, 

and  OTHERS  of  the  Blacks. 

Enter — Left  Upper — POPULACE. 

POPULACE.     Hurrah  for  Dante! 

DANTE.  Nay,  nay;  say  Donati. 

A  CITIZEN.     The  charge  that  clove  their  line 

for  us  was  yours. 

DANTE.     Praise   not  the   spear  that   split  the 
foeman's  mail, 


38  DANTE. 

But  praise  the  brain  whence  came  the  skill 
that  aimed  it. 

DANTE  shakes  hands  with  LATINI,  CINO, 
DINO,  and  OTHERS,  then  takes  out  his 
manuscript  and  begins  to  write,  and, 
after  a  while,  to  talk  with  CAVALCANTI 
at  the  Left  Front. 
Exeunt — Left  Front — LATINI,  CINO,  DINO,  and 

the  POPULACE. 
SIMONE    (to   DONATI,   at  extreme  Right  and  re- 

fering  to  DANTE'S  words). 
Well  said! 
DONATI.  It  was.     That  soft  thing  termed 

a  sponge 

Will  always  hug  you,  when  in  touch  with  it. 
But  no  one  finds  the  least  impression  left 
When  you  are  not  in  touch  with  it. 
SIMONE.  I  see. 

You  think  then  that  he  fears  you  in  your  pres 
ence. 
DONATI.     I  think  he  may  not  fear  me  in  my 

absence. 

SIMONE.     You  doubt  him? 
DONATI.  When  I  choose  a  fol 

lower, 
My  standard  must  be  followed, — not  his  own. 


DANTE.  39 

He  lets  his  own  thought  lead  him;  and  you 

know 

Men  led  by  thought  are  often  led  to  doubt. 
SIM  ONE.     One   thinking   follower   might   make 

men  believe 
Your    other    followers    were    controlled    by 

thought. 
DON  ATI  (laughingly).     You  think  a  thug  could 

ever  pose  as  thinker? 
Enter — Right  Upper — GEMMA  and  BACCHINA  and 

another  WOMAN. 
GEMMA  (to  DONATI,  and  looking  toward  DANTE). 

And  is  it  true  he  led  the  charge? 
DONATI.  They  say  so. 

A  brave  man,  Gemma!  but,  of  course,  you 

know  it ; 
Has  dared  to  press  a  suit  with  you,  I  hear. 

(GEMMA  nods.} 

A  hero,  yes!   You  might  not  go  amiss — 
I  mean  remain  a  Miss — had  he  his  way. 
(GEMMA  looks  toward  DANTE.     DONATI  contin 
ues  to  SIMONE.) 

If  made  a  member  of  our  family, 
He  might  prove  ours  in  all  things.     Few  have 

brains 

Too  cool  and  clear  to  feel  a  rise  in  blood 
And  not  be  fevered  and  confused  by  it. 


40  DANTE. 

No  poison  paralyzes  thought  like  pride ; 
No  pride  as  poisonous  as  family  pride. 
BACCHINA     (to     GEMMA,     and    looking    toward 

DANTE.) 

Oh,  one  could  give  a  world  of  common  men 
For  just  one  armful  of  a  man  like  that ! 
OTHER  WOMAN.     He  must  have  trained  his  eyes 

when  he  was  flying. 
They    look   as    deep    down   through    one    as 

an  eagle's, 

Ay,  not  as  if  belonging  to  the  senses 
But  to  the  soul! 

GEMMA.  You  think  so? 

OTHER  WOMAN.  Think  so? — Yes. 

How  broad  his  chest  is! — Look! — and  how  it 

heaves! 
Hard  work,   I   think,   but  thrilling  work  as 

well, 

To  keep  inside  of  it  a  spirit  grand 
As  his! 
BACCHINA.     Note  you  his  graceful  limbs,  and 

how 

He  poises  at  the  waist,  as  if  about 
To  leap  to  some  fair  realm  of  beauty  which 
His  flesh  enrobes  but  cannot  realize ! 
CAVALCANTI  (to  DANTE  at  the  extreme  Left  Front] . 
One  whose  position  lifts  him  where  the  crowd 


-  DANTE.  41 

Look  up  to  him  should  never  use  the  station 

To  drag  up  low  down  brutes  like  this  Donati. 
DANTE.     I  only  spoke  the  truth. 
CAVALCANTI.  Cook  soup  for  swine ! 

They  leave  you,  if  the}?-  fail  to  find  it  swill; 

Or  else,  in  greed  to  get  it,  trip  and  tramp  you. 

They  harm  you  for  your  help;  and  still  stay 

swine. 

DANTE.     But  surely  I  meant  right. 
CAVALCANTI.  Perhaps  you  did ; 

But  when  we  find  men  claiming  they  meant 
right, 

We    find    most    others   claiming   they   went 

wrong. 

DANTE.     You  doubt  me? 
CAVALCANTI.     It  were  hard  not  doubting  one 

Who  turns  against  his  own. 
DANTE.  You  mean? 

CAVALCANTI.  I  mean 

Exactly  what  I  say.     A  little  black, 

If  mixed  with  white,  may  soil  the  white  as 
much 

As  all  black  would. 
DANTE.  Yourself  had  been  all  black, 

And  lost  for  Florence  all  its  liberty, 

Had  I  myself  not  urged  you  to  the  fight. 

'T  is  only  justice,  gratitude,  to  own  it. 


42  DANTE. 

CAVALCANTI.     Unjust,  ungrateful,  am  I  ? — What 

are  you 
To    fling    these  taunts  at   one   who  merely 

seeks 
To  snatch  you  from  the  toils  of  your  own 

folly? 

The  world  you  think  in  is  a  world  of  fancy. 
The  world  all  live  in  is  a  world  of  fact. 
Exit — Left  Front — CAVALCANTI. 
(DANTE  locks  after  him,  then  takes  out  his  manu 
script  and  writes. 
DONATI  (to  SIMONE,  and  looking  toward  DANTE 

and  CAVALCANTI). 
They  must  have  quarreled. 
SIMONE.  Yes,  it  looks  like  that. 

DONATI.     It  does;    and,  when  our  enemies  fall 

out, 

'T  is  time  that  we  ourselves  fall  in.     For  then 
They  fight  for  their  own  cause  with  half  their 

force, 

And  with  the  other  half  they  fight  for  us. 
SIMONE.     I  judge  ft  was  Cavalcanti's  jealousy 

That  caused  the  jar. 

DONATI.  And  their  twin  poet-natures. 

When  minds  are  filled  so  full  of  light  conceits, 
Clipped  off   like  chippings   from    substantial 
concepts, 


9ANTE.  43 

They  store  fit   kindling-wood,  when  comes  a 

friction, 

To  burst  in  flame.     You  know  I  always  hold 
A  dreaming  man  is  not  a  dangerous  foe ; 
For   dreams   portend   their   opposites.     Just 

when 
He  wings  his  whims  to  heaven,  he  wakes  in 

hell. 

Ay,  ay,  a  foe  deficient  in  his  brain 
Is  quicker  vanquished  than  if  so  in  body; 
For  he  whose  reason  fails  him  in  the  fray 
Fights  like  a  knight  unbuckling  his  own  mail. 
Exeunt — Right  Front — DONATI  and  SIMONE. 
(GEMMA  and  BACCHINA  who  have  been  near  the 

Right  Upper  approach  DANTE.) 
BACCHINA  (to  DANTE).     You  know  how  all  are 

talking  of  you?     Oh, 
Your  ears  must  flame ! 
DANTE  (putting  his  manuscript  in  his  pocket). 

If  flaming  high  enough, 
I  might  then  look  like  Moses. 
BACCHINA.  But  suppose 

They  talked  against  you? 

DANTE.  I  would  act  like  him. 

BACCHINA.     Be  meek? 

DANTE.  Oh,  yes;  as  meek  as  he  was  when 

He  took  down  Aaron's  calf. 


44  DANTE. 

BACCHINA.  Whose  calf  is  here? 

DANTE.     Why   theirs   who   rather  would   look 

back  to  Egypt 

Than  forward  to  a  promised  land. 
GEMMA.  You  mean 

The  poet's  land? 

DANTE.  It  might  mean  that  to  you. 

BACCHINA.     Why  not? — The  poet's  is  the  prom 
ised  land, — 

Is  always  promised,  but  it  never  comes. 
GEMMA.     Some  think  that  he  would  fly  to  it. 
DANTE.  Why  not? 

Some  minds  would  walk  and  some  would  fly. 

You  fear 

That  those  who  fly  all  fail  to  leave  a  foot 
print  ? 
GEMMA.      You  seem  despondent.       You  have 

quarreled — eh  ? — 
With  Cavalcanti? 

DANTE.  We  exchanged  some  words. 

BACCHINA.     And  flung  them  hard  to  make  them 

hurt  the  thing 

They  hit,  not  so? — They  made  your  faces  red. 
DANTE.     The  day  is  warm — and  pleasant. 

BACCHINA  laughs  and  turns  away. 
Exit — Right  Front — BACCHINA  and  OTHER  WO 
MAN. 


DANTE.  45 

GEMMA.  Should  be ;  yes— 

For  one  like  you,  whom  it  has  proved  a  hero. 
DANTE.     A  hero? 

GEMMA.  That  is  what  the  whole  town  says. 

DANTE.     I  did  but  do  my  duty. 
GEMMA.  That  is  what 

But  very  few  do.     It  gave  you  your  chance. 
DANTE.     So  pigmies,  did  one  plod  with  them, 
might  give 

A  little  common  man  a  chance  of  greatness. 
GEMMA.     Of  course. 
DANTE.  Well,  I  would  rather  work  with 

giants. 

GEMMA.     Why? 

DANTE.     They  could  lift  me  up  above  myself. 
GEMMA.     But  you — you  do  not  need  that. 
DANTE.  Not? — Not  I?— 

When  I  am  lingering  here  to  learn  from  you? 
GEMMA.     My  uncle  and  the  people — you  have 
heard  them — 

Would  all  give  you  an  uplift. 
DANTE.  When  the  heart 

Sinks  deep  as  mine,  touch  deft  enough  to  reach 
it 

Requires  a  single  hand,  not  many. 
GEMMA.  You 

Intend  to  natter? 


46  DANTE. 

DANTE.  Do  I? 

GEMMA.  You  appear 

To  question  me. 
DANTE.  One  never  questions — does  he?— 

A  thing  in  which  he  takes  no  interest? 
Enter — Left  Upper — CAVALCANTI  and  BEATRICE, 

and  stand  watching  them. 
GEMMA.     I  interest  you  then  ? 
DANTE.  Yes,  all  things  do. 

GEMMA.     That  holds  no  flattery. 
DANTE.  What? — to  treat  a  maid 

As  if  confounding  her  with  all  things? 
GEMMA  (looking  toward  the  Right  Front) .     There 

My  uncle  comes.     I  think  would  speak  to  you. 

Exeunt — Right  Front — DANTE  and  GEMMA. 
BEATRICE  (looking  after  them).     He  seems  atten 
tive  to  her. 
CAVALCANTI.  Yes,  and  goes 

To  meet  Donati. 
BEATRICE.  Is  it  she,  or  he, 

That  draws  him  toward  the  Blacks? 
CAVALCANTI.  No  fish  are 

drawn 

Except  by  hooks  first  baited  to  their  taste. 
BEATRICE.   He  has  a  taste  then  for  your  enemies  ? 
CAVALCANTI.     I  do  not  know. 
BEATRICE.     You  doubt  him? 


DANTE.  47 

CAVALC ANTI.  No ;  I  mourn  him. 

BEATRICE.     You  may  be  right.    Tis  hard  to 

make  him  out. 
CAVALC  ANTI.     And  harder,  if  you  make  him  out, 

to  say  it. 
At  times,  us  men  who  think  we  understand 

him 

He  welcomes  but  like  strangers  pushing  in 
The  front  door  of  one's  house  before  they 

knock. 
BEATRICE.     His  poems  plead  with  me,  his  lips 

with  her. 

His  brain  seems  like  a  bat's  at  blazing  noon 
That   works   but  to  work  out   some  inward 

whim 

And  aims  at  nothing. l8 

CAVALCANTI.  Nay;  it  aims  at  all  things. 

Perhaps  it  might  be  wise  to  let  him  know 
Your  judgment  of  him. 

BEATRICE.  How  could  that  be  done? 

CAVALCANTI.     If  when  one  come  to  pluck  a  rose, 

he  finds 
It  grows  on  thorns,   he  may  become  more 

cautious. 

BEATRICE.     Would  that  be  friendly? 
CAVALCANTI.  Are  our  foremost 

friends 


48  DANTE. 

The  ones  who  first  forget  our  faults,  or  fail 
Of  effort  to  correct  them? 
BEATRICE.  Did  we  turn 

Our  preferences  to  pedagogues,  and  school 
The  souls  that  came  to  us  for  sympathy, 
Though  best  of  friends,  we  might  seem  worst 

of  foes. 

Enter — Right  Front — DANTE  followed  by  CINO. 
CAVALCANTI.     We  quarreled  lately.     Notice  me 
ignore  him. 

(CAVALCANTI  and  BEATRICE  pass  DANTE 
without  bowing  to  him  although  they  bow 
to  CINO.  DANTE  sits  in  distress  on  the 
benchi9.) 

Exeunt — Right   Front — CAVALCANTI    and    BEA 
TRICE. 
CINO    (to    DANTE,    sitting    down    beside    him}. 

What  is  it? 
DANTE.  Why,  you  saw!     They  were 

my  friends. 

Oh  what  a  world  is  this  for  souls  to  live  in ! — 
For  spirits  whose  one  deepest  wish  it  is 
To  think  at  one  with  others  like  themselves, 
And  all  together  think  one  thought  of  God ! 
But  here  one  knows  no  wishes  not  imprisoned 
Where  all  the  implements  to  set  him  free 


DANTE.  49 

Are  but  these  clumsy  tools  of  breath  and 

brawn. 

CINO.     Some  understand  us. 
DANTE.  You,  perhaps,  not  me! — 

My  soul  is  but  an  alien  on  the  earth, 

And  alien  most  to  this  brute  frame  of  mine 

That  never  lets  me  do  the  thing  I  would ; 

So  what  I  like  not,  it  attracts  to  me ; 

And  what  I  like  and  love,  it  drives  away. 
CINO.    This  on  the  day  the  people  cheered  you  so  ? 
DANTE.     You  think  I   craved  their  cheering? 
No,  not  that. 

I  only  want  the  best  I  have  within 

To  be  made  better  and  believed,  and  then 

Received  by  those  about  me. 
CINO.  They  all  know 

How  you  have  fought  for  Florence. 
DANTE.  Do  they  know 

How  I  would  have  them  live,  so  none  should 
need 

To  fight  for  her?   Think  you  't  is  by  the  sword 

That  one  can  set  a  soul,  while  living,  free? 

Ah,  not  by  deeds  but  dreaming  does  the  spirit, 

Itself  uplifted,  lift  up  those  about  it. 
CINO.     So  you  remain  a  poet! 
DANTE.  I  remain 

What  heaven  has  made  me. 


50  DANTE. 

CINO.  Does  it  come  from 

heaven? 
DANTE.     It  comes  from  all  in  life  that  is  worth 

living. 
Enter — Left  Upper — Two  MESSENGERS  from  the 

BLACKS. 
Enter — Right    Upper — A  MESSENGER  from   the 

WHITES. 

MESSENGER    FROM    BLACKS     (to    DANTE,  who 
with  CINO  rises').     Donati  and  the  leaders 
of  the  Blacks 
Will  dine  to-night  at  Carpi's.     They  await 

you. 
MESSENGER   FROM   WHITES    (to   DANTE).     And 

Cavalcanti  and  the  Whites  will  dine 
At  Rondinelli's.     They  await  you,  too. 
MESSENGER  FROM  BLACKS.     Our  invitation  was 

the  first. 
MESSENGER  FROM  WHITES.  And  mine 

The  best. 
MESSENGER    FROM    BLACKS    (drawing   sword). 

Then  prove  it. 
(The  other  MESSENGER  FROM  BLACKS  also  draws 

his  sword.) 

MESSENGER    FROM    WHITES    (drawing    sword). 

You  are  two  to  one; 
And  that  is  one  too  many. 


DANTE.  51 

DANTE   (drawing  his  sword  to  separate    them). 

Here,  fight  fair! 
MESSENGER   FROM   BLACKS.     You   think   your 

own  fair  play-'-against  my  side 
And  back? 
DANTE.  I  would  not  harm  you.     I  would 

keep 

You  both  from  harming  one  another. 
MESSENGER  FROM  BLACKS.  Oh! 

Enter — Right    Upper — CAVALCANTI    and    BEA 
TRICE. 

(DANTE  does  not  notice  them). 
DANTE  (to  MESSENGERS).     No  flattery  for  your 
selves  !     In  times  like  these 
A  man  would  kick  apart  the  meanest  curs 
That  snarled  and  snapped  each  other  for  the 

bone 

Beside  the  city  gate,  and  so  save  all 
That  all  might  still  keep  watch  for  Florence. 
MESSENGER  FROM  BLACKS.  Ah, 

You  think  when  you  have  cursed  us  all  as  curs 
That  this  will  keep  the  city's  peace? 
MESSENGER  FROM  WHITES.  Well,  well; 

No  man  that  calls  me  cur  but  I  call  down. 
CAVALCANTI.     What  is  it?     Wait  here. 
(Motions  to  MESSENGER  OF  WHITES  who  falls 
back.) 


52  DANTE. 

BEATRICE.  I  have  sometimes  heard20 

That  whom  the  gods  destroy  they  first  make 

mad. 

What  pity  it  would  be,  did  Florence  fall, 
Because  of  one  defender  less  to  save  her! 
When  foes  assail  our  hights  they  all  should 

look 

To  find  us  marshalled  here  in  unity 
With  all  our  differences  hid  as  deep 
As  are  the  lowest  things  the  valley  shadows. 
MESSENGER  FROM  WHITES.     You  may  be  right. 
MESSENGER     FROM     BLACKS      (sheathing      his 
sword,  as  do  also  the  others'). 

Some  things  that  may  go  wrong 
Are  righted  by  the  touch  of  circumstance. 
CAVALCANTI.     All   things   are    righted    by   the 

touch  of  reason. 

Without  it  men  are  but  base  tools  of  passion, 
And    all    their    world    here,    the    abode   of 

brutes. 

DANTE  (to  MESSENGERS).     Your  pardon,  gentle 
men  ;  but  I  must  dine 
In    my    own    home    to-night.   I   thank    you 

much. 
Exeunt — Right  Front — CAVALCANTI,   BEATRICE, 

and  MESSENGER  FROM  WHITES. 
Exit — Left  Front — MESSENGERS  FROM  BLACKS. 


DANTE.  53 

DANTE  (to  CINO,  taking  out  his  manuscript  and 
looking  towards  BEATRICE). 

Do  your  wrists,  ankles,  thighs,  and  arms,  all 

ache? 

CINO.     All  ache? 
DANTE.  Yes,  ache. 

CINO.  How  so? 

DANTE.  They  ache,  I  say! 

At  times  with  too  much  joy,  as  if  a-tremble 

To  fly  above,  yet  bound  by  brawn  below; 

Or  when  you  feel  insulted,  slighted,  sad, 

They  do  not  ache  then,  either? 
CINO.  No,  not  mine. 

DANTE.     You  never  feel  your  soul  here  in  your 

nerves  ? 

CINO.     No,  no. 
DANTE.  My  nerves  are  weaker,  then,  than 

yours. 

CINO.     Your  soul  may  then  be  stronger. 
DANTE.  Say  not  that. 

CINO.     And  better! 
DANTE.  Nay;  no  friendship  that  is  true 

Was  ever  caught  or  kept  by  flattery. 

No ;  I  am  weaker,  maybe  worse. 
CINO.  Take  care! 

The  modest  may  be  more  unjust  to  self 

Than  are  the  egotistic  to  their  fellows. 


54  DANTE. 

DANTE.     If  just  or  not  just  to  myself,  who  knows 

it? 

Why  even  you,  you  do  not  feel  as  I  do. 
Why  should  a  soul,  whose  one  wish  is  to  be 
Akin  with  others — understood, — be  made 
So  different? 
CINO    (pointing   to    DANTE'S  manuscript}.     My 

Dante,  all  the  thoughts 
That  flood  the  world  spring  up  from  single 

souls ; 
And  some  of  these  may  bless  it  most  when 

made 

To  spend  their  lives  interpreting  themselves. 
DANTE  (putting  his  manuscript  in  his  pocket}. 
I  thank  you ;  but  I  fear  that  any  soul 
That  needs  to  be  interpreted,  before 
It  gains  the  common  love  of  common  men — 
For  this  alone  is  all  for  which  I  long — 
Dwells    in    the    doom    of    some    uncommon 

curse. 

CINO.     Do  not  think  that. 

DANTE.  And  wherefore  should  I  not? 

Here   stood  two  parties.     Each  I   strove  to 

serve. 

With  what  result  ? — a  brawl  befitting  wolves, 
Till  I,  dishonored  bone  of  their  contention, 
Am  snarled  aside. 


DANTE.  55 

CINO.  An  hour  ago,  they  praised  you. 

DANTE.     What  care  I  for  the  masses'  praise  or 

blame  ? 

But  larger  atoms  of  earth's  common  dust, 
If  whirled  against  one  or  away  from  one, 
They  cannot  fill  or  empty  thus  the  sphere 
Where  dwells  the  spirit.    Let  them  come  or  go. 
My  soul  desires  not  many  things  but  much — 
Ah  yes,  and  too  much,  too  much,  as  it  seems! 

Enter — Left  Front — GEMMA  and  OTHER  WOMEN. 

CINO  (looking  toward  them). 
Is  that  what  you  desire? 

DANTE.  You  said  just  now 

The  world  could  not  interpret  my  desire. 
There  is  but  one — and  all  things  work  to  make 
My  presence  to  that  one  misrepresent  me. 

GEMMA  (approaching  with  a  garland  in  her  hand, 

and  addressing  DANTE). 
Yes,  it  is  brought  for  you. 

DANTE.  For  me? 

GEMMA.  For  you. 

The  knight  whose  hard  strife  keeps  our  soil 

our  own, 

As  much  as  gardeners  who  keep  it  growing, 
Deserves  the  garland  that  is  got  from  it. 

Enter — Right     Upper — BEATRICE    and    CAVAL- 
CANTI,  unseen  by  DANTE. 


56  DANTE. 

DANTE  (to  GEMMA  and  the  WOMEN,  as  he  takes 

the  garland). 

I  thank  you.     Fitting  too,  it  is  that  these 
That  represent  the  beautiful  in  nature 
Should  represent  it,  too,  in  human  form. 
What  man  could  fail  to  do  his  best  to  gain 
The  city's  best  in  symbol  and  in  substance ! 

(Bowing  to  GEMMA,  then  looking  up  and  seeing 
BEATRICE,  he  suddenly  sits  on  the  bench.)21 

CINO  (bending  over  him).     What  is  it? 

DANTE.  Nothing. 

CINO  (to  the  OTHERS).  Nothing,  so  he  says. 

Perhaps  the  battle  had  exhausted  him. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  THIRD. 

SCENE:  A  Room  in  the  House  of  DANTE. 
Against  the  back  wall,  nearest  the  Right  En 
trance,  is  a  table,  on  two  sides  of  which  are 
chairs.  Other  chairs  and  a  sofa  are  in  the 
Room.  Entrances  by  doors  at  Right  and  Left. 
The  windows  are  closed  and  the  light  not 
bright. 

The  rising  Curtain  reveals  DANTE  and  CINO 
sitting  at  the  table.  DANTE  is  listlessly  look 
ing  away  from  the  manuscript  in  front  of  him 
self;  and  CINO  is  diligently  examining  another. 

CINO  (looking  toward  DANTE). 

Why,  Dante,  you  have  lost  your  interest? — 

DANTE.  I  have. 

CINO.     Your  verse  there  is  not  new,  of  course. 
I  got  it  from  you  months  ago 4 ;  but  yet 
True  poems  hold  the  truth  as  gems  the  light, 
When  rightly  polished  drawing  to  their  depth 
All  that  is  luminous  in  earth  or  heaven; 
And  thence  reflect  it  not  alone  but  flash  it ; 
And  not  till  all  light  go,  can  lose  their  bril 
liance. 

57 


58  DANTE. 

DANTE.     You  give  the  reason — all  my  light  is 

gone. 
You  still  write  poetry? 

CINO.  Why,  yes,  and  so 

Still  need  your  criticism ;  ay,  just  now 
Have  found  a  new  task  baffling  me. 

DANTE.  In  what? 

CINO.     A  sister  of  a  friend  of  mine  has  died, — 
A  maiden  of  such  beauty,  grace,  and  love, 
It  were  impossible  to  think  her  dead, 
And  not  be  drawn  toward  beauty,  grace,  and 

love 
In  their  diviner  aspects. 

DANTE.  You  should  write 

Of  her? 

CINO.     So  have  I  thought;  but  what  or  how? — 
Perhaps  you  might  suggest  it. 2  2 

DANTE.  Cino,  Cino, 

I  understand  you.     There  are  souls  on  earth 
With  senses  all  so  fine  and  penetrant 
That  no  thoughts  in  a  kindred  soul  can  lie 
So  deeply  hidden  that  they  stand  not  naked. 
Not  her  you  mean ;  not  you  it  is  need  help. 
You  mean  my  own  lost  love.     You  mean  my 
self. 

You  think  that  hearts  too  heavy  weighed  with 
grief 


DANTE.  59 

May  empty  through  their  words  as  well  as 

tears. 
I    thank    you,    Cino.     Let    my    tears    flow 

first. 

Our  sorrows  are  half  lifted  when  the  souls 
Of  our  true  friends  have  come  to  bear  them 

with  us. 
Last  night  when  darkness  fell  and  veiled  my 

face23 
From   those    I    surely   thought    it    else    had 

frighted, 
I  walked  the  streets  and  watched  the  city 

dream. 

In  lanes,  in  inns,  in  churches,  and  in  homes 
Each  face  I  gazed  at  loomed  as  grim  with 

shadows 
As  those  that  clung  to  mine.     Her  funeral 

pall 

Seemed  closely  hung  about  myself  as  her, 
Flopping  a  dangling,  dire,  bedraggled  fringe 
Of  tear-soaked  black  between  myself  and  all 

things. 
CINO.     Think  not  she  lies  beneath  it.     Nay,  she 

lives ; 

And  lives  where  all  may  look  for  inspiration. 
DANTE.     The  one  sure  proof  of  inspiration  is 
That  it  inspires.     I  feel  no  inspiration. 


60  DANTE. 

CINO.     The  air  of  heaven  to-day  is  full  of  sun 
shine. 

Shut  in  here  do  you  feel  it  ?     No ;  none  do 
But  those  who  journey  forth  to  do  life's  work. 
Their  lot  were  yours,  were  you  to  follow  them. 
Knocking  at  the  Left  Entrance. 
DANTE  and  CINO  both  rise. 
Enter — Left — ATTENDANT. 

He  hands  DANTE  a  Card. 

DANTE.     Excuse  me,  Cino.     I  must  calm  my 
self— 
Will  soon  return.     A  man  should  not  look 

grieved 
To  greet  a  friendly  visitor. 

Exit — Right — DANTE. 
The    ATTENDANT    opens    the   door   at   the   Left 

Entrance. 

Enter — Left — CAVALCANTI. 
CINO  (to  CAVALCANTI).     Good  day. 

Exit — Left — ATTENDANT. 
CAVALCANTI  (bowing  to  CINO).     I  have  not  seen 

him  lately — never  since 
The  death  of  Beatrice— 
CINO.  That  seemed  to  quench 

All  ardor  in  him  for  all  work. 
CAVALCANTI.  I  hope. 

But  temporarily.     A  mind  like  his 


DANTE.  6l 

Glows  like  a  spark  upon  a  wintry  hearth, — 
The  brightest  promise  that  the  times  afford. 

CINO.     Vitality  as  buoyant  as  his  own 

Can  hardly  sink.     Yet,  whelmed  in  floods  of 

grief, 
All  men  at  times  have  need  of  helping  hands. 

CAVALCANTI.     The  hand  that  helps  another  most 

is  his 
Whose  own  hand  would  find  help. 

CINO.  Let  him  know 

The  help  that  Florence  needs. 

CAVALCANTI.  The  loss  he  feels 

Is  like  the  love  it  followed,  less  derived 
From  outward  traits  discovered  in  another, 
Than  inward  temperament  revealed  in  self. 
Can  any  outward  substitute  replace 
That  which  was  all  within? — But  we  can  try  it. 

CINO.     He  comes,  I  see. 

Enter — Right — DANTE. 
He  exchanges  bows  with  CAVALCANTI. 

CAVALCANTI.  So  sorry  for  you,  friend. 

DANTE.     I  find  me  in  life's  path,  a  traveler 
Whom  accident  has  maimed,  and  would  be  left 
To  die,  did  friends  not  come  to  rescue  him. 

CAVALCANTI.     Ay,  but  they  do  come! 

DANTE.  Yes,  I  thank  you,  yes; 

And  yet,  what  can  they  do  for  one? 


62  DANTE. 

CINO.  Perhaps 

Their  outstretched  hands  may  show  that  love 

is  hidden 
Behind  the  mysteries  that  seem  to  cloak  it. 

DANTE.     I  thank  you,  Cino. 

CINO.  Dante,  I  believe, 

Though  hard  the  drill  that  trains  the  soul  to 

read  it, 

That  every  message  of  the  stars  is  written 
In  letters  one  can  learn  to  spell  on  earth. 

DANTE.     Oh,  I  can  do  but  little  now  with  letters ! 

CAVALCANTI.     It  seems  thus  to  you. 

DANTE.  Seems  thus,  Cavalcanti?— 

And  what  is  life  except  the  thing  that  seems? 
There  was  a  time  this  round  horizon  rested 
About  my  spirit,  as  about  my  finger 
This  ring  of  gold ;  and  in  it  gleamed  a  gem 
That  centered  all  heaven's  light,  and  flashed  it 

forth. 
That  gem  is  lost.     With  it  my  light  is  lost. 

CAVALCANTI.     I  hope  not,  Dante.     Florence  yet 
is  left. 

DANTE.     Alas  for  Florence! 

CAVALCANTI.  There  are  those  who 

claim 
Her  destined  to  receive  the  help  of  Rome? 

DANTE.     How  so? 


DANTE.  63 

CAVALCANTI.     What  we   are  asking.     No   one 

knows. 
CINO.     A  mystery  yet!     The   Church  has  not 

revealed  it. 
CAVALCANTI.     Too  much  a  mystery!  When  men 

distrust 

Their  own  thought  or  their  thought's  authority 
So  they  disguise  it  all  in  robes  of  office, 
Which  only  men  are  bid  to  honor,  then 
I  fear  they  hide  what  no  man  ought  to  honor. 
CINO.     You  are  a  skeptic,  Cavalcanti.9 
CAVALCANTI.     Yes; 

As  long  as  one  thing  in  the  world  is  wrong, 

Some  skeptic  should  be  here  to  think  it  so. 

DANTE.     Has  no  one  tried  to  solve  the  mystery? 

CAVALCANTI.     To  question  mysteries  guarded  by 

the  Church 

Does  not  provoke  safe  answers  in  our  time. 
DANTE.  Can  no  one  solve  it  but  the  Church? 
CAVALCANTI.  I  fear 

Donati  could;  and  therefore  say  I  fear. 

Enter — Left — ATTENDANT  with  a  card. 
DANTE  (taking  the  card  and  reading  it).     Why, 

even  now,  Donati  visits  me. 
Will  you  excuse  me? 

CAVALCANTI.  Ay,  but  may  the  comer 

Be  levied  to  bear  tribute  to  our  quest. 


64  DANTE. 

DANTE.     Will  see  you  later. 
CAVALCANTI.  Yes,  farewell. 

CINO.  Farewell. 

Exeunt — Right — CAVALCANTI  and  CINO. 
The  ATTENDANT  opens  the  door  at  the  Left. 
Enter — Left — DONATI,  SIMONE,  a  PRIEST, 
GEMMA,  and  an  Elderly  CHAPERON. 

Exit — Left — ATTENDANT. 
DONATI  (to  DANTE).     When  passing,  though  by 

accident, 

The  loyal  pause  to  honor  royalty, 
So  we  to  honor  one  whom  we  esteem. 
DANTE.     I  thank  you.     You  are  welcome. 
(All   exchange  greetings.} 

Will  you  sit? 

(They  bow,  but  they  do  not  sit.} 
DONATI   (to  DANTE).     We  have  not  met  you 

lately. 

DANTE.  No. 

PRIEST.  You  think, 

You  poets,  you  are  called  to  testify 
To  what  incites  you  from  within,  and  so 
The  less  you  take  from  outside  life  the  better? 
DANTE.     At  times,  if  aimed  for  better  poetry. 
PRIEST.     Oh,  say  not  that! 
DANTE.  Why  not? 

PRIEST.  If  it  would  grow, 


DANTE.  65 

A  nature  young  as  yours  has  need  of  health. 

The  spirit's  health  is  hope.     Without  it  none 

Attain  full  manhood.     Life  is  like  a  day. 

It  wakes  to  longer  work  and  larger  wage, 

The  brighter  its  beginning. 
DANTE.  Yes,  I  fear  so. 

PRIEST.     You  fear  so,  eh? — and  yet  you  do  not 
fear 

Insulting  nature  when  it  comes  to  bless  you 
(Pointing  to  the  closed  shutters) 

With  windows  barred  like  this,  as  if  the  day 

Had  brought  not  light  but  lances. 
DANTE.  Think  I  need  it? 

DON  ATI.     At  least,  enough  light  from  the  outer 
world 

To  see  what  now  has  come  to  Florence. 
DANTE.  What? 

DONATI.    The  Holy  Father's  promise  and  protec 
tion 

Against  the  Emperor. 
DANTE.  Is  it  true? 

DONATI.  It  is. 

PRIEST.     And  that  would  bring  the  whole  our 
city  needs, — 

Not  strength  so  much  to  fight  the  force  without 

But  spirit  to  unite  the  force  within. 

Life  grows  here  like  a  tree  with  outer  branches 


66  DANTE. 

Too  broad  for  any  handling,  but  with  trunk 
So  small  and  slender  that  a  single  hand 
Can  fix  its  destiny  for  life  or  death. 
The  trunk  of  all  that  lives  is  in  the  spirit. 
But   find   the   hand    that    can    be    laid    on 

that, 
You  find  what  brings  to  all  things  bloom  or 

blight. 

DANTE.     You  mean  the  Holy  Father's? 
PRIEST.  I  mean  his. 

With  outer  facts  we  merely  fashion  faction, 
In  inner  feeling  we  find  fellowship. 
DONATI.     He  speaks  the  truth. 
DANTE.  Ay,  what  a  noon  were  that! 

There   were    no    shade    beside    a    thing    on 

earth, 

If  heaven's  one  sun  were  central  over  all. 
You  think  it  could  be  done? — could  end  our 

factions  ? 
DONATI.     Why  could  it  not? — not  many  men 

would  band 

Against  the  Holy  Father. 
DANTE.     And  were  you — 

Were  you  the  source  whence  came  this  con 
summation  ? 

DONATI.     So  men  have  said. 
DANTE.  And  will  you  pardon  me? 


DANTE.  67 

In  thought,  if  not  in  word,  my  lack  of  know 
ledge 

Had  lacked  the  honor  due  you. 
DONATI.  You  are  frank. 

PRIEST.     A  mind  with  thought  forever  in  the 

clouds 

May  be  excused  for  stumbling,  now  and  then, 
At  what,  if  seen  through,  might  appear  mere 

shadow. 
GEMMA.     One  may  excuse  a  bird,  if,  when  it 

flies, 

It  fails  in  seeing  everything  on  earth.24 
DANTE.     I  beg  your  pardon,  lady — for  I  fear 
To  court  with  too  much  courtesy  the  truth 
That  but  to  be  truth  bids  us  oft  be  curt — 
Some  poet's  eyes  are  keen  as  are  their  fellows! 
In  searching  through  the  pathways  of  the  past, 
What  guide  men  better  in  their  task  than 

poems? 

SIMONE.     But  how  about  the  future? 
DANTE.  'T  is  in  them 

One  reads  the  most  of  that  which  is  to  come. 
SIMONE.     And  in  the  present,  too? 
DANTE.  In  it,  not  that 

Which  is  but  should  be,  is  the  poet's  theme, 
And  he  who  thinks  it  thinks  the  thought  of 
God. 


68  DANTE. 

DONATI.     Come,   come,   we  need   not   quarrel. 

Not  how  men 
Can  fight  the  air  with  words,  but  how  their 

frames 
Can  back  their  words  with  blows  that  free 

their  air 

Of  all  that  blocks  right  doing,  this  is  that 
By  which  a  man  reveals  his  worth  in  life. 
And  you  will  join  with  us,  and  with  the 

Church? 

DANTE.     You  may  depend  upon  me. 
DONATI.  That  I  shall 

(aside  to  SIMONE). 
Now  we  shall  have  but  half  the  Whites  against 

us. 

(to  DANTE).     I  must  be  going  to  my  offices. 
(to  GEMMA).     You   said,   I   think,   that  you 
go  elsewhere? 
GEMMA.  Yes. 

DONATI  (to  DANTE).     T  is  time  we  leave  you. 
DANTE    (bidding  good-bye  to  DONATI,   SIMONE, 

and  OTHERS). 
Thank  you  for  your  visit. 
Exeunt — Left — DONATI,    SIMONE,    PRIEST,    and 

ATTENDANTS. 
(to  GEMMA). 
They  seemed  in  haste. 


DANTE.  69 

GEMMA.  Are  bent  on  business. 

DANTE.     You  know,   I   sometimes  think  that 

business 

Is  like  a  cyclone,  fills  our  ways  with  dust 
And  bustle;  yet  men  say  it  comes  to  clear 

them 
And  bring  us  rest  and  comfort.     Humph! — 

farewell. 

GEMMA.     So  kind  in  you  to  help  my  uncle!24 
DANTE.  No; 

My  heart  belongs  to  Florence ;  only  beats 
That  she  may  live  her  life ;  and  he  was  kind 
In  helping  her;  and  I  have  gratitude. 
Ay,  he  was  right.     For  us  one  hope  remains, — 
The  Church.     We  both  look  forward  to  the 

Church, 

And,  joined  by  it,  our  union  will  be  perfect. 
Enter — Right — CAVALCANTI  and  ATTENDANTS. 

They  overhear  the  last  sentence. 
Exeunt — Left — after  exchanging  farewells,  GEMMA 

and  CHAPERON. 
DANTE  (turning  to  CAVALCANTI). 

Ah,  back  again? 
CAVALCANTI.  We  are. 

DANTE.  Have  news? 

CAVALCANTI.  We  had. 

DANTE.     What  was  it? 


70  DANTE. 

CAVALCANTI.  Nay,  like  wise  men,  we 

are  wary 
Of    friends    that    follow    those    with    hostile 

colors. 

DANTE.     I  do  not  see — 
CAVALCANTI.  We  saw  and  heard  and 

know. 

DANTE.     Oh  that  was  nothing ! 
CAVALCANTI.  Not  for  you,  perhaps. 

But  very  much  for  us. 
DANTE.  Let  me  explain. 

CAVALCANTI.     You    need    not;   nor    excuse    it. 

Temperament 

And  taste,  like  flower  and  fragrance,  go  to 
gether. 
What    God   hath    joined    let    man   not    put 

asunder. 

DANTE.     But  you — 
CAVALCANTI.     Have  found  before  that   family 

reasons, 

At  times,  turn  white  to  black. 
DANTE.  Are  no  such  reasons. 

CAVALCANTI.     Mere   words   are   wind;   nor   all 

their  storm  or  stress 
Can  pack  the  air  so  thought  cannot  see  through 

it. 
DANTE.     You  mean? 


DANTE.  7 1 

CAVALCANTI.  We  overheard 

DANTE.  And  think — 

CAVALCANTI.  And  know. 

DANTE.     To  know  one  needs  to  learn.     How  did 

you  learn? — 
What  steps  were  those  that  led  up  to  your 

knowledge  ? 
CAVALCANTI.     When  mortals  climb  a  path  to 

truth  unseen, 

They  feel  their  way  along  the  links  of  logic. 
DANTE.     Aha! 
CAVALCANTI.     The  notes  just  heard  from  you 

but  echo 
The  strains  that  all  have  heard  you  pipe  for 

months. 
DANTE.     Why  then  have  I  myself  not  heard  the 

echoes? 
CAVALCANTI.     I  take  you,  Dante,  for  a  man  of 

honor. l8 

And  after  prying,  pulling,  plucking,  plying, 
With  such  a  maiden's  heart,  you  would  not 

fling 
The  soiled  thing  back  to  her,  face  us,  and 

claim 

You  had  been  empty  handed? 18 
DANTE.  Cavalcanti! 

And  you,  of  all  men,  knew  the  thing  I  meant. 


72  DANTE. 

CAVALCANTI.     The   thing   you    said! — To    God 
with  what  you  meant ! — 

One  who  has  not  His  confidence  must  guess  it. 
DANTE.     How  did  my  spirit  trip  to  fall  so  low 

In  your  esteem? 
CAVALCANTI.  We  mortals  are  compounded 

Of  sense  below,  and  spirit  resting  on  it. 

If  sense  give  way,  no  wonder  spirit  falls. 
DANTE.     You  deem  me  treacherous  to  the  one 
above 

That  so  I  love;  and  treacherous  too  to  one25 

That  I  do  not  love? — By  your  hope  of  heaven, 

In  your  deep  heart,  can  you  believe  this  of 

me? 

CAVALCANTI.     Why,  think  you,  some  men  call 
me  skeptical? — 

Because  I  say  what  I  believe,  not  so? 
DANTE.     But  do  you  think? — 
CAVALCANTI.  What  else,  pray,  could 

one  think? — • 

You  just  took  council  with  Donati. 
DANTE.  There!— 

Again  your  jealousy!     He  called  on  me, 

Not  I  on  him. 

CAVALCANTI.     You  knew  his  object? 
DANTE.  Yes — 

To  end  our  factions  for  us  here  in  Florence, — • 


DANTE.  73 

To  place  above  us  all  the  sovereignty 

Which  only  brings  good  will  and  peace  on 

earth. 
CAVALCANTI.     And  you  have  pledged  yourself 

and  followers 

To  join  Donati  in  enthroning  this? 
DANTE.     I  have. 
CAVALCANTI.     You  fool. 
DANTE.  Take  care. 

CAVALCANTI.  I  say  but  truth. 

A  man  who  fails  to  judge  the  character 
Of  what  is  promised  by  the  character 
Of  him  who  promises,  reveals  no  mind ; 
For  mind  is  what  connects  effect  and  cause. 
You  knew  the  baseness  of  Donati,  yet 
Guessed  not  the  baseness  that  was  in  his  plan. 
Henceforward,  though  you  know  a  bush  be 

poison, 

Bid  men  come  pluck  and  gorge  its  pretty  ber 
ries; 

And,  if  all  die,  expect  no  blame  for  it — 
You  have  but  carried  out  the  kind  of  thought 
With  which  heaven  filled  the  kind  of  mind  like 

yours. 

Surrender,  would  you,  to  the  Holy  Father?26 
You  know  what  that  means? — All  his  troops 
come  armed. 


74  DANTE. 

Their  leader  is  the  French    prince,   Charles 

of  Valois. 

The  Emperor,  I  tell  you,  is  a  very  god 
Beside  a  devil  of  a  man  like  Charles, — 
A  treacherous,  truthless,  crafty,  cruel  brute; 
Who  too  comes  pledged  to  slaughter  or  to 

banish 

Each  man  of  us  not  in  Donati's  faction. 
DANTE.     Can  this  be  true? 
CAVALCANTI.     It  is.     May  heaven  defend  us ! 
The  pull  that  lifts  one  by  a  rotting  rope 
Is  far  less  dangerous  than  the  help  that  comes 
From  foolish  friends. 
Enter,  suddenly — Left — DONATI,  SIMONE,  PRIEST, 

and  ATTENDANTS. 

DONATI    (noticing    CAVALCANTI    and    ATTEND 
ANT  s). 

Aha !     They  would  dissuade  you  ? 
DANTE.     There  seems  a  difference  of  opinion 

here. 

DONATI.     I  have  your  promise. 
CAVALCANTI.  And  I  fear  a  traitor. 

DONATI   (to  DANTE).     And  he  has  given  you 

proof? 

CAVALCANTI  (to  DONATI).     What  need  of  proof? 
We  best  can  judge   of  some  things  by  their 
source, — 


DANTE.  75 

Of  days  by  daylight,  and  of  good  by  goodness. 
Heaven  sends  the  one,   and  only  heavenly 

traits 

Can  bring  the  other. 
DONATI  (to  CAVALCANTI).     Yours  are  heavenly 

traits?-— 
He  made  a  promise.     Now  you  bid  him  break 

it? 
CAVALCANTI.     A  promise  made  to  suit  a  lie  but 

robes 
Untruth  that  truth  should  strip  and  so  show 

naked. 

DONATI.     Here  stand  my  men ;  and  if  his  tongue 
prove  false, 

(pointing  toward  DANTE) 
Their  blades  know  how  to  cut  it  loose  from 

him. 
CAVALCANTI.     And  here  stand  mine;  and  if   he 

prove  a  traitor, 
Their  blades  know  how  to  cut  him  loose  from 

us. 
DONATI  (to  DANTE).     Now  choose  between  us, 

if  you  dare. 

CAVALCANTI.         Ay,  choose! 
DANTE.     Have  you  considered  that  to  which 

you  dare  me? 
To  start  right  here  a  civil  war  in  Florence? 


76  DANTE. 

Kill  off  our  bravest  citizens,  and  open 
The  doors  of  half  our  homes  to  lust  and  mur 
der? 

And  do  you  think  that  I  could  dare  do  that  ? 
You  bid  me  choose  between  you.     You  forget 
There  is  another  power  upon  the  earth 
Far  higher,  stronger,  than  can  be  your  own. 

(placing  his  hand  on  the  PRIEST) 
I  hide  beneath  the  shelter  of  the  church. 
I  vow  a  pilgrimage  to  Rome ;  and  thus 

(turning  to  DONATI) 
Fulfil  my  promise, 

(turning  to  CAVALCANTI) 

and  find  out  ths  truth 

From   him   who   knows   it   best, — the   Holy 
Father.27 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  FOURTH. 

SCENE  :  A  Monk's  Cell.  It  is  dimly  lighted  by  a 
single  lamp,  and  is  connected  by  a  door  with  a 
church,  from  which  the  sound  of  musical  instru 
ments  and  of  singing  can  be  heard.  The  cell  is 
plainly  furnished  with  three  or  four  chairs  or 
benches.  In  the  Right  Rear  is  an  alcove  in  front 
of  which  hangs  a  Curtain.  This  can  be  opened 
fully,  or  only  partly,  revealing  then  a  space, 
through  which,  at  times,  indicated  in  the  text,  a 
moving  head  and  bust  can  be  seen. 
Entrances,  Right  and  Left,  the  latter  into  the 

church. 

Enter — Left — DANTE  and  CINO,  shutting  the  door 

and  making  the  cell  darker. 
DANTE.     My  journey  wrought  no  good.     The 

Holy  Father 
Kept  me  a  prisoner  there  for  months,  you 

know, 27 
For  fear  my  presence  here  should  thwart  his 

purpose ; — 

Was  courteous,  of  course ;  but  Cavalcanti 
Was  more  than  half-way  warranted,  I  fear. 
77 


78  DANTE. 

In  Church  or    State,    the  official  seems  the 
same, — 

A  fist  in  front  with  which  to  threaten  one; 

A  palm  behind  to  beg  him  for  a  bribe. 
CINO.     Yet  you  yourself  are  prior  of  the  city? 
DANTE.     And  so  have  learned  that  when  men 
give  us  votes, 

They  lie  in  wait  to  have  their  gifts  returned, — 

To  wrest  from  us  an  undeserved  reward, 

Or  brand  us  ingrates  whom  all  friends  desert. 
CINO.     Oh,  say  not  all! 
DANTE.  No,  Cino,  no;  not  all. 28 

Forgive  me,  Cino.     Since  we  two  were  boys, 

The  only  love  that  I  have  felt  returned, 

Has  been  my  love  for  you. 
CINO.  And  yet  they  say 

The  love  of  woman — 
DANTE.  Could  that  satisfy 

And    thrill    with    aught    so    true,    unselfish, 
pure  ?— 

I  worship  boyhood,  thinking  what  we  were. 
CINO.     But  what  of  Rome? 
DANTE.  If  leading  toward  the  wrong, 

Ought  those  who  seek  the  right  to  follow  her? 
CINO.     Good  children  follow. 
DANTE.  Parents  gone  insane, 

Or  but  awry,  are  saved  by  opposition. 


DANTE.  79 

Love  uniformed  and  forced  in  hatred's  press- 
gang 

Is  only  served  by  those  who  war  against  it. 
Our  thoughts  of  good  should  learn  to  separate 
The  heavenly  love  from  its  foul  earthly  nest. 
To  hold  the  latter' s  dead  impurity 
At  one  with  spotless  life  that  wings  on  high, 
Is  often  to  deserve — I  will  not  judge  them. 
I  would  I  could  forget  them.     Do  you  know 
Some  men  there  are  have  murder  in  their 

hearts 
Through  all  their  lives;  and  if  they  murder 

not 

CINO.     They  may  be  rightly  numbered  with  the 

saints. 

Not  what  our  lower  nature  makes  us  feel, 
But  what  our  higher  nature  lets  us  do, 
Determines  what  we  are. 

DANTE.  I  hope  so,  friend. 

At  times  my  soul  appears  a  stormy  sea, 
All  rage  below  and  rain  above;  and  then 
It  seems  the  tears  I  shed  have  drained  me  dry, 
And  left  a  void  too  deep  for  faith  in  God 
Or  man  to  fill. 

CINO  For  that  I  brought  you  here. 

DANTE.     And  kindly  meant,  but  yet  we  mortals 
find 


8o  DANTE. 

That  few  things,  when  we  turn  them  inside 

out, 

Are  proved  to  be  the  miracles  we  thought 
them. 

CINO.     But  you  may  see  here  for  yourself. 

DANTE.  Oh  no! 

The  time  to  see  the  feathers  on  a  wing 
Is  not  the  while  it  flies;  no,  no;  and  not 
While   playing    sleight    of   hand   to   see    the 
fingers. 

CINO.     But  you  can  use  your  judgment. 

DANTE.  No,  again! — 

No  man  who  is  no  expert  risks  a  judgment 
On  questions  experts  only  can  decide, 
Without  revealing  his  own  lack  of  judgment. 

CINO.     At  least,  your  mind  is  open. 

DANTE.  Yet  to  what? — 

All  brains  with  limits  are  what  polyps  own 
You  think? — Ours  too  fit  forms  whose  grasp 

can  never 

Outreach  the  touch  of  short  tentacula. 
Your  monk  has  credit  here?29 

CINO.  With  some  he  has. 

They  think  that  through  him  they  have  seen 
the  Virgin. 

DANTE.     Humph!     He  is  coming. 


DANTE.  8l 

Enter  —Right  — MONK. 

CINO  (to  MONK). 

I  have  brought  with  me 
This  gentleman — is  prior  of  the  city. 
MONK.     You  do  me  honor. 
CINO.  Would  consult  with  you 

About  the  city's  welfare. 
MONK.  I  know  not 

What  may  be  granted.     Sometimes  at  this 

hour, 

The  while  one  hears  the  music  in  the  church, 
I  sink  unconscious.     Then,  so  am  I  told, 
Some   higher   power   proclaims   its    presence 

through  me. 

Music  is  heard  from  the  church  with  the  following 
words: 

The  sky  contains  full  half  I  see. 

In  soil  below  I  live,  I  love. 

High  in  the  half  that  looms  above, 
Oh,  is  there  nothing  there  for  me  ? 

During  the  music,  the  MONK  points  to  the 
curtain.  CINO  and  DANTE  draw  it  aside, 
and  examine  the  walls  and  floors  behind 
and  beneath;  then  the  MONK  goes  into 
the  alcove  and  draws  the  curtain  behind 
him.  The  words  of  the  song  are  followed 
by  a  soft  instrumental  interlude. 


82  DANTE. 

DANTE.     Seems  honest. 
CINO.  I  have  thought  so. 

DANTE.  Could  one  solve 

All  motives  and  all  means  of  mystery, 
There  were  no  sphere  for  faith. 
CINO.  No.     Sit  you  here. 

CINO  and  DANTE  take  seats  at  the  Left,  fac 
ing  the  Curtain.     Throughout  the  seance, 
DANTE,   now  and  then,   writes  in  his 
manuscript. 
DANTE.     And  now  you  think  the  prior  of  the  city 

May  meet  an  actual  Holy  Father,  eh? 
After  the  instrumental  interlude  the  following  is 
sung: 

The  sky's  bright  sun  and  stars  I  see 
The  soil  below  is  gtrised  in  green 
In  heaven  whose  orbs  are  robed  in  sheen, 

Oh,  is  there  nothing  there  for  me  ? 

These  words  are  followed  by  a  soft  instru 
mental  interlude.  The  curtain  begins  to 
move  from  side  to  side.  Then  it  opens 
and  a  woman's  form  enrobed  in  a  white 
gown  appears. 

CINO.     That  seems  a  woman. 

DANTE.  But  the  monk  was  beardless. 

CINO.     Yet  note  how  slim  she  is. 


DANTE.  83 

DANTE.  She  may  be,  yes. 

FIGURE.     Good  evening,  friends. 

DANTE.  A  very  good  falsetto! 

The  figure  after  making  gestures  disappears. 
CINO.     Well  done,  not  so? 
DANTE.  Too  well! 

CINO.  Could  you  explain  it? 

DANTE.     Why  no;  not  wholly.     What  of  that? 

At  times, 

That  facts  are  facts  is  plain  without  explain 
ing. 
To  know  things  grow,  we  need  not  know  their 

methods. 

To  think  things  handiwork,  we  need  not  see 
The  hand  that  does  the  work.     What  was  she, 

think  you? — 
And  what  her  object? 
CINO.  Was  a  guide  preparing 

The  way  for  more. 

DANTE.  Conducting  spirit,  eh? 

After  the  instrumental  interlude  the  following  is 
sung: 


In  thoughts  within,  sweet  rest  I  see; 

In  things  without,  but  dust  and  toil. 

Where  hang  no  veils  of  flesh  and  soil, 
Oh,  is  there  nothing  there  for  me  ? 


84  DANTE. 

These  words  are  followed  by  a  soft  instrument 
al  interlude.     The  curtain  opens,   and 
a  man's  figure  clothed  in  white  appears. 
CINO.     Watch  that  now. 
DANTE.  Has   a   beard,    and   well 

put  on. 
FIGURE.     The  world  keeps  rolling  on  from  day  to 

night. 
None  always  dwell  where  always  glows  the 

light. 
When  darkness  comes,  and  doubt  assails  the 

mind, 

Then  light  and  faith  come  following  swift  be 
hind. 

The  figure  disappears. 

DANTE.     Is  optimistic.     Yet  the  merest  child 
Could    recognize    the    monk    there    by    his 

voice. 

And  what  was  he? 
CINO.  A  guide. 

DANTE.  Another,  eh?—- 

And  learned  his  lesson  well.     But  when  will 

those 

That  need  the  guiding  come? 
CINO.  Must  wait  and  watch. 

After  the  instrumental  interlude  the  following  is 
sung: 


DANTE.  85 

In  faith  and  hope  and  love  I  see 

Why  earth  sent  home  the  Christ  that  came. 
When  I  go  home,  and  own  the  same, 

Shall  there  be  nothing  there  for  me  ? 

These  words  are  followed  by  a  soft  instru 
mental  interlude.     The  curtain  opens  and 
a  figure  of  Beatrice  clothed  in  white  ap 
pears. 
CINO.     Look  there.     I  think   your  name    was 

called  too. 
DANTE.  Yes,— 

And  shall  I  answer? 

CINO.  I  would — go  and  see  it. 

DANTE  (rising  and  approaching  the  curtain) . 
Why,  why, — what  is  it? — Cino,  can  you  help 

me? 

Come  here,  please,  come. 

CINO.  Why,  that  is  Beatrice.30 

DANTE.     You  see  her? 
CINO.  Yes. 

DANTE.  And  it  is  not  my  fancy? 

CINO.     Nay,  question  not  yourself,  but  her — 

less  loud ! — 

She  else  may  disappear. 
DANTE  (to  the  FIGURE).     You  come  to  me? 
FIGURE.     And  do  you  know  me  then? 
DANTE.  Are  Beatrice? — 


86  DANTE. 

You  wear  her  form. — What  would  you  have  me 

do?— 
FIGURE.     Do  what  you  dreamt  last  night,  and 

now  design. 

DANTE.     And  then,  what  then? 
FIGURE   (disappearing).     Then — we  shall  meet 

again. 
DANTE.     Wait,  wait!     (to  CINO)  Why,  call  her 

back! 
CINO.  No,  not  to-day. 

You  spoke  too  loud.     Hear  that? — The  monk 

is  waking. 
DANTE.     Why  I — I  had  no  chance  to  test  its 

truth. 

CINO.     And  yet  you  saw  her. 
DANTE.  Yes. 

CINO.  And  so  did  I. 

DANTE.     And  if  I  come  again  here,  can  I  see 

her? 

Enter — from  behind  the  curtain — the  MONK, 
DANTE  continues,  addressing  ike  MONK, 

What  I  have  seen  now,  can  I  see  again  ? 
MONK.     They  tell  me  so.     And  did  you  get  the 

thought 

To  guide  you  in  the  conduct  of  the  city? 
DANTE.     The  conduct  of? — Oh  yes,  you  thought 

of  that? 


DANTE.  87 

(to  CINO). 

But  as  I  sat  here,  I  had  not  that  thought, 
But  one  sweet  thought  of  her,  and  how  to 

reach  her; 
And  what  it  was  that  filled  the  space  between 

us; 

And  how  I  could  describe  it!     Did  you  hear 
The  word  she  spake.     She  bade  me  tell  my 

dream 

Of  moving  toward  and  meeting  her. — But  how 
Could  she  have  known  it!     Could  I  but  be 
lieve 
She  was  a  spirit  sent  here  to  inspire  me ! 

(to  MONK). 

And  you  will  let  me  come  again,  and  prove 
The  truth  of  this? 
MONK.  I  will;  yet  now  it  seems 

That  you  believe  it. 

DANTE.  With  my  heart  I  do. 

MONK.     And  sometimes  hearts  judge  better  than 

do  heads. 
CINO.     Ay,  sometimes  things  may  be  so  beauti- 

ful,   ' 

And  fill  the  spirit  with  such  holy  thrills, 
To  doubt  them  were  akin  to  doubting  God, 
When  face  to  face  with  his  own  blazing  pres 
ence. 


88  DANTE. 

MONK.     At  least,   all  beauty  changes  what  it 

brightens. 

A  flower  that  blooms  may  merely  fall  to  soil, 
But,  when  it  does,  the  soil  to  which  it  falls 
Is  never  quite  the  same  it  was  before. 
DANTE.     Yet  mind  has  methods  that  must  be 

fulfilled. 
You  say  that  I  may  come  again.     I  thank  you. 

(to  CINO). 
To    save    mine   honor   that    men    else    had 

doubted,18  2S  ^ 

I  had  to  marry ;  yet  I  feared  I  wronged 
The  memory  of  this  other.     Now,  if  true — 
Oh  Cino,  think! — She  may  forgive  and  guide 
me! 

Enter — Left — ATTENDANT  and  GEMMA. 
They  open  the  door  and  leave  it  open,  letting  in 

much  more  light. 
Sh — sh — my  wife. 

(gesturing  and  speaking  to  both  CINO    and  the 
MONK). 

No  word  of  this  to  her! 

GEMMA  (bowing  to  others  and  speaking  to  DANTE). 
I  came  here  to  attend  the  funeral — 3  2 
Signora  Frescobaldi.     Then  I  learned 
That  you  had  crossed  the  cloister.    You  should 
know 


DANTE.  89 

The  threatened  danger.     Whites  and  Blacks 

have  come 
In   crowds   and   companies,    all   frowns   and 

threats. 
DANTE.     They  surely  have  not  brought  their 

weapons? 

GEMMA.  Yes. 

DANTE.     Good  God! — to  treat  His  house  as  if 

a  hot-house 

To  nursery  blood-red  blades  of  hellish  hate ! 
We  should  prevent  this. 
MONK.  I  will  keep  them  parted. 

(Holding  up  his  cross.) 

Against   the   cross    they    will    not    dare    to 
fight. 

Exit — Left — M  ON  K. 
DANTE.     The  city-guards  should  be  informed  at 

once. 

Here,  take  you  this  for  me. 
(Writing  on   a   manuscript  and   handing   it   to 

ATTENDANT.) 
Exit — Right — ATTENDANT. 

(A  noise  of  conflict). 
CINO.     Already  fighting? 

He  moves  toward  the  door  at  the  Left. 

Enter — Left — The  MONK,  evidently  slain,  borne 

by  ATTENDANTS. 


QO  DANTE. 

DANTE   (to  CINO,  as  he  himself  kneels  down  to 

examine  the  MONK  on  the  floor}. 
Killed  him?  killed  him? — and  I  can  learn  no 

more  ? — • 

The  gates  of  heaven  that  he  could  set  ajar, 
And  he  alone,  must  now  be  closed  again? 
Enter — Left — CAVALCANTI  and  DONATI,  both 
respectively    followed   by   WHITES    and 
BLACKS.     DANTE  rises  and  continues  to 
them. 

Oh  you  accursed  heathen!  worse  than  those 
Who  ignorantly  crucified  the  Lord ! 
You    knew    his    messenger,    yet    murdered 

him. 

ATTENDANT  OF  CAVALCANTI.     It  was  an  accident. 

DANTE.  An  accident! — 

Like  that  which  follows  from  the  rock  that 

falls 

Where  men  who  lie  in  wait  have  loosened  it. 
An  accident — oh  yes ! — that  plots  to  arm 
The  palsied,  shaking,  thought-void  clutch  of 

rage, 

And  let  it  loose  to  raise  a  hellish  storm 
Just  where  the  good  have  come  for  heavenly 

calm ! 

The  lightning  of  your  flashing  blades  fell  not 
By  accident. 


DANTE.  91 

ATTENDANT  OF  CAVALCANTI.      It  was  Donati's 

men 

That  started  it. 

ATTENDANT  OP  DONATI.     Nay,  Cavalcanti's. 
DANTE.  Nay, 

But  both;  and  all  whose  orders  brought  these 

arms. 
When    mortals  are  our  hosts,   the  meanest 

men 

Will  not  insult  them  in  their  homes,  but  you 
Come  here  to  God's  house,  all  equipped  to  break 
His  law  of  love,  and  kill  his  ministers. 
Why,  one  might  almost  visit  hell  to-day 
In  safety, — so  deserted  by  the  fiends 
Called  out  to  take  possession  here  of  you ! 
(Some  draw  swords  and  some  threaten  him.} 
You  threaten  me? — Why  not? — Just  now  in 
there 

(pointing  toward  the  Left) 
Were  threatening  God ! — And  do  I  fear  you  ? 

—No; 

I  have  no  need.     The  men  who  dare  do  right 
Enlist  with  God,  who  guards — or  guides  them 
home. 

Enter — Right — A  -file  of  city  guards. 
There  is  one  certain  way  to  end  these  troubles. 
I  had  my  doubt  before.     The  priors  lack 


92  DANTE. 

One  vote  by  which  to  banish  both  your  lead 
ers, — 

Yes,  Cavalcanti  and  Donati,  both.32 
GEMMA.     Nay,  say  not  that! 
DANTE.  I  say  that  I  shall  give  it; 

And  clear  my  conscience,  while  I  clear  this  air, 
And  clean  these  foul  and  corpse-clogged  lanes 

of  Florence. 

Let  this  be  done,  her  son's  aspiring  hope 
May  picture  outlines  of  her  destiny 
In  hues  more  bright  and  sweet  than  could  be 

dreamed 

By  any  soul  besmirched  here  and  bestenched 
In  blotches  of  your  cursed  Black  and  White. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  FIFTH. 

SCENE:  The  same  as  in  Act  Third.  Backing,  at 
the  center,  is  a  desk  connected  with  a  writing 
table.  In  the  desk  are  many  manuscripts  in 
confusion;  and  near  it,  on  the  -floor,  a  waste 
basket.  In  the  room  are  chairs  and  sofas.  The 
rising  curtain  reveals  DANTE  with  pen  in  hand 
sitting  before  a  manuscript  on  the  desk,  hum 
ming  and  drumming  with  his  fingers,  as  if 
marking  off  time  to  some  rhythm. 
Entrances — Right  and  Left. 

Enter — Right — GEMMA. 

GEMMA  (to  DANTE).     What  are  you  doing? 

DANTE.  Writing. 

GEMMA.  Always  writing. 

DANTE.  That  is  my  mission. 

GEMMA.  Not  your  business. 

DANTE.     They  differ? 

GEMMA.  Yes.     One's  mission,  as  a  rule, 

Is  wrought  alone;  one's  business  with  others. 
Things  done  alone  may  but  be  done  for  self. 
Things  done  with  others  may  be  done,  too,  for 
them. 

93 


94  DANTE. 

DANTE.     True  missions  only  serve  the  higher 

self. 
GEMMA.     Some  people  always  think  their  own 

selves  higher 

Than  are  the  selves  of  those  about  them. 
DANTE.  Oh!— 

You  knew  me  as  a  poet  when  we  married. 
GEMMA.     I   knew  you   as   a  boy,   too;  and   I 

thought 
That  when  you  grew  you  would   become  a 

man. 

There  was  a  time  my  uncle  thought  so,  too. 
He  pictured  you  a  hero  and  a  leader. 
Now  none  dare  claim  you  as  a  follower. 
DANTE.     None  dare? 

GEMMA.  Who  dares  to  have  a  follower 

That  stabs  him  in  the  back,  as  you    have 

stabbed 

Donati  and  your  great  friend,  Cavalcanti? 
DANTE.     You  know  I  try  to  follow  what  is  right. 
GEMMA.     And  never  find  the  right  save  in  your 
self; 

And,  if  you  did,  your  endless  cant  and  chatter 
Knagged  out  like  warnings  from  a  rattler's 

tail 

Would  worry  off  your  faction's  foes  before 
You  harmed  them. 


DANTE.  95 

DANTE.  So  you  think  me  wrong? 

GEMMA.  As  all  do. 

Who  vote  you  prior  now?  They  tax  your  all 
Like  some  plebeian.  When  you  wish  to  work, 
None  care  to  wager  wages  on  your  doing. 

DANTE.     And    my    own    household    also    turn 
against  me? 

GEMMA.  Besides  descending  to  your  disesteem, 
Your  wife  should  hanker,  eh,  and  hunger  too 
To  starve  with  you!33 

(Snatches   and   tears   up   the   manuscript   he   is 
writing.) 

DANTE  (trying,  at  first,  to  save  his  manuscript). 
And  why  do  you  do  that? 

GEMMA.     To  wake  you  up. 

DANTE.  One  who  writes  out  his  dream 

Must  be  awake  already. 

GEMMA.  I  would  make 

You  realize  it,  so  I  tear  it  up. 

DANTE.     One  dream  was  torn  up  long  ago,  I  fear. 
Why,  Gemma,  when  I  married  you  I  judged 
Your  spirit  by  the  beauty  of  its  body ; 
And  that  seemed  so  at  one  with  what  I  fan 
cied 

I  could  not  doubt  that  it  would  prove  at  one — 
Could  we  but  know  each  other,  through  and 
through — 


96  DANTE. 

With   all  my   soul  that  had   conceived   the 

fancy. 
GEMMA.    'T  was  not  the  first  time  life  has  proved 

that  poets 

Are  fools  who  judge  their  fancies  to  be  facts. 
DANTE.     At  times,  my  faith  still  thinks  they 

may  be  facts. 

Our  fancies  are  the  children  of  the  soul, 
With  rights  of  heritage  as  true  as  those 
Of  any  other  form  of  thought.     If  so, 
Then  their  relationship  may  be  as  true — 
Though     how    we     never    now    can    under 
stand — 

To  that  which  mortals  term  reality. 
GEMMA.     Past  hope !  Still  prating  of  the  soul  !— 

as  if 

A  man  could  take  it  out  and  measure  it ! 
DANTE.     The  stature  of  the  soul  is  measured  by 

The  distance  of  its  outgrowth  over  earth. 
GEMMA.     The    outgrowth,    eh? — explains   your 

misfit,  does  it? — 

Oh  yes! — you  have  outgrown  your  low  sur 
roundings  ? 

DANTE.     Why  misinterpret  me  ?     I  may  not  fit 
The  world  I  live  in.     Did  the  Christ  fit  his? 
Could   any   man   walk   straight   in   paths   of 
earth, 


DANTE.  97 

Nor  trespass  on  some  crooked  paths  of  others? 
Enter — Left — ATTENDANT,  and  behind  him  DINO. 

Exit — Left — ATTENDANT. 
GEMMA  and  DANTE.     Good  day. 
DINO.  Good  day. 

DANTE.  And  is 

there  any  news? 
DINO.     There  is,  and  bad.     I  thought  I  ought  to 

warn  you. 
DANTE.     How  so? 
DINO.  Donati  is  returning  soon 

With  Charles  of  Valois,  and  the  French  to  back 

him. 
DANTE.     The  Whites  will  not  be  able  to  protect 

us? 

DINO.     The  Whites  have  lost  their  leader. 
DANTE.  Cavalcanti 

Can  be  recalled  now,  if  Donati  come. 
DINO.     No,  no;  not  he;  he  is  beyond  recall. 
DANTE.     What  mean  you? 
DINO.  He  was  banished  by  the  priors 

To  Sarzana. — It  is  the  home  of  fevers.32 

They  welcomed  him  too  warmly.     He  is  gone. 
DANTE.     I  never  knew  of  fever  raging  there. 
GEMMA.     As  many  go  astray  through  ignorance 

As  through  iniquity.     Ay,  there  are  times 

Wise  rascals  do  less  harm  than  righteous  fools. 


98  DANTE. 

DANTE.     You  speak  like  that  to  me,  and  now? 

Oh  God! 
When  all  my  soul  sinks  downward  with  the 

weight 

Of  that  dead  body  of  my  friend? — no  pity? 
You  know  there  was  but  one  right  thing  to  do. 
I  could  not  let  the  good  of  this  rash  friend 
Outweigh  the  safety  of  the  whole  of  Florence. 
GEMMA.     And  yet  be  sure  the  whole  of  Florence 

feels 

Less  gratitude  for  you  than  grief  for  him. 
His  friends,  at  least — 
DANTE.  I  see;  and  I  who  tried 

To  meet  out  equal  justice  to  a  hoard 
In  Church  and  State,  all  squirming  here  like 

worms 
To  tomb  their  mates  in  dirt  and  mount  upon 

them, 

Priests  cursing  people,  people  cheating  priests, 
Whites  boasting  of  white  shrouds  they  trail 

behind  them, 

Blacks  of  black  funeral  palls  that  follow  them, 
And  every  one  of  them  too  mean  to  own 
One  other  man  the  equal  of  himself, — 
I  stand  the  enemy  of  all.     Oh  God ! — 
Some  spirits  here  may  seek  thy  higher  life, 
And  help  their  fellows.     It  is  not  for  me. 


DANTE.  99 

Would   I   mount  up,  I  find  no  wings  for  it, 
I  fall. 
Enter — Left — ATTENDANT  and  CINO. 

All  exchange  greetings. 
Exit — Left — ATTENDANT. 
(DANTE  continues  to  CINO). 
And  you,  too,  come  to  bring  bad  tidings? 
CINO.     I  bring  this  proclamation.     It  concerns 
you. 

(Handing  a  paper  to  DANTE.) 
DANTE  (taking  the  paper  and  looking  at  it). 
Who  wrote  it,  and  who  sent  it,  and  from 

where? 
CINO.     It  comes  here  from  Donati  and  Prince 

Charles. 

They  march  against  the  city. 
DANTE.  But  the  Whites. 

CINO.     We  have  no  leader,  and  the  most  are  fly 
ing. 

DANTE.     What  says  the  proclamation? 
CINO.  It  names  you, 

And  four  besides  you,  summoned  to  appear  34 
And  answer  for  extortion  and  rebellion 
Against  the  Pope  and  Charles. 
DANTE.  Extortion?     What?— 

For  raising  pence  to  keep  the  city's  peace? — 


loo  DANTE. 

Rebellion,  towards  the  city's  enemies? 
Who  charges  that? 

CINO.  It  says  here,  "common  fame." 

DANTE.     What  threatens  those  who  fail  to  heed 

the  summons? 

CINO.     Their  property  shall  all  be  confiscated, 
Themselves  be  banished,   and,   if  caught  in 

Florence, 
Be  burned  alive. 

DANTE.  If  I  obey  the  summons 

And  speak  the  truth,  they  will  obtain  their 

wish; 

I  shall  be  caught  in  Florence. 
CINO.  You  should  leave. 

DANTE.     Too  true!  but,  first — you  are  a  lawyer, 

Dino — 

Draw  up  a  paper,  making  over  all 
My  property  to  Gemma. 

(DiNO  sits  at  the  desk  and  writes.) 
CINO    (taking    DANTE    to    extreme    Left).     Why 

not  deed 

The  property  to  some  one  else  in  trust  ? 
DANTE.     Not  safe!     If  held  as  mine  it  might  be 

doomed. 

Donati's  niece  could  keep  it  for  herself. 
CINO.     She  might  not  deed  it  back. 
DANTE.  She  would  not  take  it 


DANTE.  10 1 

From  her  own  children;  and,  you  know,  be 
sides, 

We  men  who  wed  incur  a  debt  of  honor. 
CINO.     But  should  that  let  one  harm  himself? 
DANTE.  Why,  honor 

Is  in  oneself,  and  so  does  not  depend 
On  anything  another  is  or  does. 

(to  DINO). 

The  paper  will  be  ready  soon,  not  so? 
I  must  prepare  me,  and  will  then  return. 

Exit — Right — DANTE. 
GEMMA  (to  DINO).     You  must  be  sure  to  make 

all  clear  and  certain. 
CINO  (to  GEMMA).     What  will  you  do  without 

him? 
GEMMA.  Humph! — not  penance! 

We  do  that  only  to  the  ones  we  worship. 
CINO.     So  women  do  not  worship  those  they 

marry. 

GEMMA.     Not  after  they  have  married  them. 
CINO.  Why  not? 

GEMMA.     They  get  too  near  them. 
CINO.  Humph !  but  that  depends 

On  what  one  means.     They  can  not  get  too 

near 

To  any  one  in  spirit. 
GEMMA.  What  is  that? 


102  DANTE. 

CINO.     That  in  us  which  has  least  of  body  in 

it; 
And    yet,    like  fire,    may  glow  when  bodies 

meet, 

And  make  one's  whole  life  luminous. 
GEMMA  (looking  at  him  disparagingly}.     A  poet! 
CINO.     Yes;  making  poetry  is  practising 
The  language  of  the  spirit.     I  should  like 
To  learn  to  speak  it  altogether. 
GEMMA.  Should  you? — 

That  wish  is  what  sends  Dante  now  from  Flor 
ence. 
CINO.     That  wish  is  what  sends  Dante  now  from 

Florence ; 
I    shall    remember.     May    I    quote   you    to 

him? 

GEMMA.     'T  will  be  so  kind  of  you,  reminding 
him  of  me ! 

Enter — Right — DANTE. 
DANTE  (to  DINO).     The  writing  ready? 
DINO  (rising  and  handing  the  paper  to  him}. 

Brief  but  clear. 
DANTE  (reading  it}. 
I  see — will  sign  it. 

(to  CINO  and  DINO). 

Will  you  witness  for  me? 
DANTE,  CINO,  and  DINO  sign. 


DANTE.  103 

DANTE  (handing  paper  to  GEMMA). 

There,  Gemma,  well  nigh  all  I  had  is  yours. 
You  show  it  to  your  uncle.     He  will  guard 
you. 

(Knocking  outside.) 
CINO   (looking    through    the  window   backing   at 

the  Left). 

They  seem  Donati's  men  (to  DANTE).     They 
come  to  fetch  you. 

DANTE  (turning  toward  the  door).     I 

CINO.     No,    you    must    not.     (Pointing    to    the 
Right).   ' 

Leave  the  other  way, 
And  jump  the    garden    fence  there — in   the 

rear. 

DINO.     And  yet  the  streets  are  full  of  them. 
CINO.  Wait,  wait! 

(removing  his  own  hood  and  cloak) . 
All  know  your  hood  and  cloak.     Take  mine. 

None  think 

Enough  of  these  to  stop  and  question  them. 
DANTE.     First  let  me  show  myself;  and  make 

them  sure 
That  I  am  here. 
(thrusting  his  head  from  the  window) . 

What  is  that  you  want? 
VOICE.     Yourself. 


104  DANTE. 

DANTE.  The  house  is  not  in  order.     Wait. 

The  madam  must  get  ready  to  receive  you. 
(to  CINO  and  DINO,  as  he  puts  on  CINO'S 

cloak  and  hood,  after  removing  his  own) . 
I  thank  you  for  your  kindness,  gentlemen. 

(shaking  hands  with  them) . 
A  last  word  to  my  children ;  then  I  go. 
DINO.     Where  shall  we  find  you. 
DANTE.  At  Verona  soon — 

Will  send  a  messenger. 

Exit — Right — DANTE  and  GEMMA. 

(Knocking  outside.) 

VOICE  OUTSIDE.     You  keep  us  waiting. 
CINO  (putting  on  DANTE'S  hood  and  cloak). 

They  all  will  deem  me  Dante.     Note  how  well 
I  imitate  his  voice. 

DINO.  Is  danger! 

CINO  (thrusting  his  head  out  of  the  window). 

Wait; 

Wait  till  the  madam — gets 

VOICE  OUTSIDE.  It  was  not  her, 

But  you  we  want. 

CINO.     I  know;  but  please  be  patient. 
(CiNO  draws  in  his  head.) 
Enter — Right — GEMMA. 
DINO  (to  GEMMA).     Has  left? 
GEMMA.  Will  soon — 


DANTE.  105 

CINO  (looking  about  the  room).     How  is  it  with 

his  writing? 

Should  they  discover  aught — 
GEMMA  moves  towards  DANTE'S  desk,  CINO  fol 
lows  and  continues. 

The  speaking  voice 

Is  like  a  church  bell,  mainly  rung  for  service; 
But  writing  made  for  sight  is  like  a  belfry, 
And  draws  attention  to  one's  need  of  service. 
GEMMA  (pulling  one  from  other  disordered  man 
uscripts,  on  the  desk  and  tearing  it,  and  then 
throwing  the  parts  into  a  waste-basket) . 
Not  much  here, — only  poems! 
CINO.  Yes,  but  they- 

GEMMA  (thrusting  her  hand  apparently  against 

a  pen  that  pricks  it) . 

One  could  not  get  a  pen — I  mean  a  penny 
For  all  of  them.     I  wish  his  notes  could  store 
As  much  of  point  and  sharpness,  after — say — 
His  pen  has  left  them,  as  they  seem  to,  now. 
(CiNO  and  DINO  exchange  looks  as  if  not  relish 
ing  the  remark.) 
Loud  knocking  at  the  door. 
(GEMMA  indicates  that  there  is  nothing  more  in  the 

desk.) 

CINO.     Now  when  they  come,  we  all  should  bide 
by  this, — 


106  DANTE. 

That  it  was  I  who  wore  this  hood  of  Dante — 
To  keep   the   chill  off;   and  (to  GEMMA)  are 

both  your  friends, 

Who  sped  to"  tell  you  of  Donati's  coming. 
We  thus  give  Dante  time. 

DINO.  Has  need  of  time, 

Or  else  will  quickly  get  eternity. 
Shall  let  them  in  now,  eh  ? 

(moving  toward  the  Left}. 

CINO.  Ay,  ay;  but  lend 

Your  eye  to  me,  and  arm  too,  if  they  press  me. 

DINO  opens  the  door  at  the  Left,  then  apparently 

opens  another  beyond  it. 

Enter — Left — SIMONE   and  many  ATTENDANTS. 

They  look  around  them,  then  besiege  CINO, 

who  is  at  the  Right.     CINO  draws    his 

sword,  as  do  several  of  the  ATTENDANTS. 

After  some  fencing,    CINO  throws  aside 

his  hood  and  cloak. 

CINO.     A  hood  may  hide  a  woman.     This  does 

not. 

Now,  man  to  man ! 

SIMONE.  Hold  on!    You  are  not  Dante. 

CINO.     I  never  claimed  to  be. 
SIMONE.  You  acted  him. 

ATTENDANT  (brandishing  his  sword}. 

His  false  hood  fits  the  falseness  of  his  head. 


DANTE.  107 

CINO.     If  Dante's  hood  be  covering  my  head, 
It  does  not  cover  all  his  head  contained. 

ATTENDANT.     It  makes  you  take  his  place. 

CINO.  What,  I? 

SIMONE.  Yes,  you! — 

What  else  have  you  his  cloak  for? 

CINO.  It  was  cold. 

I  came  here  to  Donati's  niece, — to  tell  her 
Donati  had  returned,  and  then  I  felt 
A  chill  assail  my  back.     This  cloak  has  killed 

it. 
Is  killing  chills  a  crime  you  kill  a  man  for? 

SIMONE.     But  where  is  Dante? 

CINO.  How  should  I  know  that? 

SIMONE.     He  just  was  at  the  window  here. 

CINO.  Why  I— 

'T  was  I  talked  there. 

SIMONE.  Pretending  to  be  Dante! 

CINO.     Pretending? — Now  by  all  that  makes  me 

human 

Am  I  to  blame  that  you  have  human  nature? 
You  work  yourselves  up  to  a  fever,  see 
The  image  of  your  own  imagination, 
Then  swear  't  was  I  caused  your  delirium ! 

SIMONE.     Humph!   Leave   him.     Search   the 
house. 

Exeunt — Right — DINO  and  CINO. 


io8  DANTE. 

GEMMA  (confronting  an  ATTENDANT,  as  lie  turns 
from  CINO).  Nay,  you  forget 

I  am  Donati's  niece. 

ATTENDANT.  And  what  of  that? 

This    house  is    Dante's.      You  are  Dante's 

wife. 
SIMONE.     He    flies   all    colors  and  he   follows 

none. 

So  where  they  fly  we  all  are  sure  to  track 
A  turncoat  treacherous  to  every  hue. 
Aha,  he  dreamed  of  ending  factions  here : 
He  did  it ! — All  unite  in  fighting  him. 

Exit — Right — SIMONE  and  OTHERS. 
Those  remaining  break  windows  and  furniture. 

Enter — Left — D  o  N  AT  i . 

GEMMA  (to  DONATI).     What  mean  these  crea 
tures  here  creating  chaos 
In  this,  my  house? 
DONATI.     It  is  the  house  of  Dante. 
GEMMA    (showing   him    the   deed   given   her    by 

DANTE).     It  is  mine. 

DONATI  (looking  at  the  deed) .     Aha !     This  makes 
a  difference. 
(to  the  soldiers.}     Hold,  hold. 

Enter — Right — SIMONE. 

SIMONE.     The  house  has  been  searched  through. 
DONATI.  No  Dante? 


DANTE.  109 

SlMONE.  No. 

DONATI.     Withdraw,  and  set  a  double  guard  out 
side. 

(to  GEMMA.) 
They  wrecked  things  badly.     Is  there  more  of 

it? 

GEMMA.     I  have  not  seen. 

DONATI.  Shall  I  go  with  you? 

Enter — Right — CINO  and  DINO. 

Who 

Are  these? 
GEMMA.     Some  friends  of  mine.     They  just  had 

come 

To  tell  me  they  had  heard  of  your  return. 
DONATI.     Humph,  humph!     (foSiMONE).     You 

give  them  passage. 

Exeunt — Left — SIMONE  and  ATTENDANTS. 
DINO  (to  DONATI).     If  you  please, 

We  first  would  find  our  cloaks  and  hoods. 
DONATI.  Of  course. 

Exeunt — Right — DONATI  and  GEMMA. 
DINO  (to  CINO,  collecting  carefully,  as  he  speaks, 
the    parts    of    the    torn    manuscript   in  the 
wastebasket,  and  concealing  them  under  his 
cloak.) 

This  world  contains  two  kinds  of  people, 
Cino, — 


no  DANTE. 

The  kind  who  see  the  whole  thing  in  its  parts, 
And  those  who  see  the  parts,   and  not  the 
whole.35 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  SIXTH. 

SCENE:  The  Interior  of  a  large  Hall  in  the  Cas 
tle  of  the  Marquis  of  Malaspina  in  Lunigiana. 
Backing,  at  the  Center,  are  Curtains  that  can  be 
drawn  aside.  Near  the  Curtains  at  the  Left  is 
a  Writing  Desk  in  which  are  manuscripts  be 
longing  to  DANTE.  Entrances  through  the  Cur 
tains  at  Back,  and  also  at  the  Right  and  the  Left. 
Enter — Right — DANTE. 

Enter — Left — CINO. 
DANTE    (taking    CINO'S    hands   in  his).     Why, 

why ! — Thank  God  to  see  you  once  again ! 
CINO.     I,  too,  thank  God.     How  are  you? 
DANTE.  Well  enough 

In  body. 
CINO.  I  am  pleased  to  find  you  here 

In  such  environment, — so  beautiful! 
DANTE.     Earth  might  have  more  of  beauty,  had 

it  had 
More  continence ;  nor  spent,  and  spawned  such 

crowds 

Between  ourselves  and  nature.     As  it  is, 
What  tempt  our  taste  appear  too  often  served 
Like  viands  one  can  scarcely  find  for  flies, 


112  DANTE. 

Or  test  for  spice  and  pepper.     Well,  what  news 
From  Florence? 

CINO.          Could  one  call  that  news  which  but 
Repeats  the  same  old  story? — brawls  and  mur 
ders?— 

I  had  to  fly  myself.36 
DANTE.  So  had  I  heard. 

But,  thank  the  Lord,  it  soon  will  end  now. 
CINO.  Will? 

DANTE,     One  time   I  trusted   Rome — in  vain. 

At  last, 

Comes  Henry  of  Luxemburg,  the  Emperor.37 
Oh  doubt,  not  him,  a  man  of  strength,  have 

seen  him. 
CINO.     Beneath  your  cloak  you  seem  to  wear — 

not  so? — 

A  soldier's  uniform? 

DANTE.  I  have  enlisted, 

And  join  him.     You  come  too — our  very  man ! 
CINO.     All  thought  you  firm  of  faith  in  the  re 
public? 

DANTE.     I  am.     No  tyrant  ever  triumphed  yet 
But  first  came  cowards  kneeling  to  be  trod  on. 
Yet    something   more   is   true.     Strong   self- 
control 

Has  never  yet  forsaken  man  or  clan 
Where  did  not  enter  the  control  of  others. 


DANTE.  113 

Which  others  is  the  one  sole  question  now 
For  half  demented  Florence.     Let  a  grip 
So  firm  that  all  should  feel  it,  rein  and  curb 
And  guide  by  reason  her  untamed  disorder, 
Think  what  our  people,  letters,  art,  might  do. — 
Why,  all  the  world  of  thought  would  focus 

there, 

And  all  enlightenment  find  there  their  sun ! 
CINO.     And  you  have  waived  the  student  for  the 

soldier? 
DANTE.     I  tell  you,  friend,  say  what  you  may 

of  thought, 

Man's  brawn  was  given  him  as  well  as  brain, 
And  there  are  things  to  tramp  for,  things  to 

clutch, 

And  days  for  doing.     They  are  brighter,  too, 
At  times,  than  nights  for  dreaming. 
CINO.  You  forsake 

The  path  of  poetry? 
DANTE.  Why  no ;  not  that ; 

Not  wholly  that !     I  mean  a  man  should  wield 
And  welcome,  too,  the  whole  that  nature  gives 

him. 

The  fist  is  fashioned  for  the  use  of  God 
In  just  as  true  a  sense  as  is  the  finger, — 
What  grasps  a  sword  as  that  which  guides  a 

pen. 


114  DANTE. 

Enter — Right — ATTENDANT. 
DANTE  (continues  to  ATTENDANT). 

And  are  they  ready? 

ATTENDANT.  Nay,  they  will  not  go. 

DANTE.     Not  go? — and  wherefore  not? 
ATTENDANT.  Had  you  not  heard? 

DANTE.     Heard  what? 

ATTENDANT.  About  the  Emperor? — was  ill. 

DANTE.     Oh,  yes;  but  only  slightly — could  re 
ceive  us. 

ATTENDANT.     Nay,  nay; — is  very  ill. 
DANTE.  You  cannot  mean — 

Impossible! — that  he  is  dead? 
ATTENDANT.  He  is. 

DANTE    (to    CINO).     Now    heaven    defend!     It 

must  not,  can  not  be. 
ATTENDANT.     And  there  has  come  a  rumor  with 

it  too. 
DANTE.     What  is  it? — From  your  mien  I  should 

infer 

It  matters  to  myself. 

ATTENDANT.  If  you  bide  longer 

Within    this    castle,    there    come    hints    of 

war. 
A  patron  who  should  shield  the  Emperor's 

friend 
Would  seem  to  be  the  foe  of  Italy. 


DANTE.  115 

DANTE.     Ah,  so! — I  must  have  time  to  think — 
I  thank  you. 

Exit — Right — ATTENDANT. 
(DANTE  continues  to  CINO.) 
Oh  Cino,  Cino,  did  one  ever  dream 
A  fate  like  mine  ? — a  civic  leper,  Cino ! — 
Turned  out  of  his  own  home  because  a  pest ; 
And  then  declared  a  pest  to  every  home 
That  still  would  welcome    him.     This    final 

blow, 

It  snaps  the  only  staff  remaining  now 
From  which  my  soul  could  wave  a  single  sig 
nal. 

Worse  off  am  I,  than  were  a  soldier  slain, 
Ay,  than  a  traveler  in  a  tiger's  den. 
If  but  these  limbs  were  plucked  out,  one  by 

one, 

I  were  not  doomed  to  live  on  then  alone, 
An  alien  to  all  comrades,  conscious  ever 
That  to  oppose  the  currents  coursing  round 
Were  vain  as  efforts  of  mere  spurting  spray 
To  still  a  surging  ocean.     Oh,  my  God! — 
To  live,  yet  be  too  frail  to  do  the  work 
That  makes  a  life  worth  living! 
CINO.  I  have  heard 

You  might  go  back  to  Florence. 
DANTE.  How  is  that  ?— 


Il6  DANTE. 

Go  back  to  Florence? — what? — and  see  those 

hills, 
My  home,  my  children,  friends,  and  have  a 

voice, 

And  be  again  a  man  with  countrymen! — 
Ah,  say  not  that, — not  if  it  be  not  true! 
The  brute-despair  my  soul  has  housed  so  long 
Is  trained  to  bear  hard  blows,  and  beat  them 

back; 
But  this  frail  trembling  babe  of  hope,  just 

born, 
Oh  it  were  cruel  murder,  maiming  it! 

Enter — Left — ATTENDANT. 

ATTENDANT  (to  DANTE).     Some  gentlemen  with 
out  are  waiting  for  you. 

CINO.     They  now  may  bring  the  hope  I  men 
tioned. 
DANTE.  Yes. 

He  bows  to  the  ATTENDANT. 
Exit — Left — ATTENDANT. 
CINO  (to  DANTE).     Shall  I  retire? 
DANTE    (gesturing  toward  the  Right  Entrance). 
'T  were  well.     If  seen  with  me, 
My  shadow  might  shed  blackness  on  yourself. 
CINO.     The  blackest  shadows  fall  from  brightest 
forms. 

Exit — Right — CINO. 


DANTE.  117 

Enter — Left — ATTENDANT,  SIMONE,  and  OTHER 

DELEGATES. 

All  exchange  bows. 

DANTE    (to   those   entering).     You   come    from 

Florence,  gentlemen? 
SIMONE.  We  do; 

And  from  your  friends  there. 
DANTE.     Have  I  friends  there? — Thank  you. 
SIMONE.     And  they  have  thought  it  better  for 

our  peace, 

And  for  the  peace  of  other  cities  near  us, 
To  end  this  feud  between  ourselves  and  you. 
DANTE.     And  I  return? — What  then  are  their 

conditions?  38 
SIMONE.     Confession,  and  repentance,  and  your 

fines, 

The  stigma  of  oblation,  and  a  robe 
Of  penitence  worn  round  the  city. 
DANTE.  Humph ! — • 

A  fool's  cap,  too,  like  that  which  I  am  told 
Was  worn  by  Lippus  Lapi  Ciolo? — 39 
And  what  about  my  wife? — would  like  to 

watch 

Her  Dante  decorate  a  scene  like  that? 
SIMONE.     She  is  Donati's  niece. 
DANTE.  If  I  return, 

I  come  as  husband  of  Donati's  niece? 


Il8  DANTE. 

And  follower  of  his  family  and  faction?— 
Present  my  compliments,  bid  all  have  patience. 
Not  far  away,  a  place  is  waiting  those 
Who  wish  to  damn  a  soul  for  doing  right, 
In  which  that  sort  of  thing  is  done  much  better. 
SIMONE.     But — 
DANTE.     No;  there  is  no  but.     God  gives  each 

man 
One  life  where  kindle  feeling,  thought,  and 

will;— 

And  bids  him  hold  it  like  a  torch  on  high 
To  light  himself  and  others.     Do  you  claim 
That  he  should  lower  it? 
SIMONE.  Why,  in  form,  perhaps; 

And  forms  of  different  shape  hold  torches. 
DANTE.  None 

Can  ever  plunge  the  torch  beneath  earth's  mire 
And   keep  it   burning.     Yield   in    form    you 

say? — 

In  form  our  frames  but  vehicle  the  truth ; 
Yet  by  its  vehicle  the  world  will  rate  it. 
When   comes  the   splendor   of   a   monarch's 

march 

Men  cheer  his  chariot,  not  his  character. 
Should  I  let  mine  trail,  broken,  bruised,  be- 

mired, 
The  world  would  hiss  both  car  and  occupant. 


DANTE.  119 

Enter — Right — ATTENDANT. 

DANTE  pauses  and  bows  to  ATTENDANT. 

ATTENDANT.     The     Marquis     comes.     Perhaps 

you  would  receive  him. 
DANTE.     Yes.     (to  DELEGATES.)     Pardon  me. 

Exit — Right — DANTE  and  ATTENDANT. 
SIMONE.  A  game-cock  crowing  yet,  eh? 

But  when   they  drive  him  from  his  present 

dunghill, 
He  scarce  will  clap  his  wings  with  such  a 

whur. 

No  further  need  deceiving  him,  I  take  it ! 
None    here     will    now    oppose    our    seizing 

1",  im. 

(pointing  to  the  writing  desk,  toward  which  sev 
eral  DELEGATES  move.} 
But  first  the  desk,  in  it  to  find  the  list 
Of  Florence  traitors,  banded  to  uphold 
The  Emperor.     Come  their  owner  back,  pro 
voke  him, 

And  thus  invoke  the  fiend  in  him  to  furnish 
Excuses  to  offset  the  fiend  in  us. 
Enter — Right — DANTE. 

DANTE  (seeing  the  DELEGATES  handling  his  pa 
pers].     What  mean  you? 

SIMONE.  We  are  gathering  information. 

A  man  so  learned  should  encourage  us. 


120  DANTE. 

DANTE.     I  thought  that   you  were  gentlemen 

from  Florence. 

SIMONE.     Yes,  dealing  with  a  traitor  from  Ve 
rona. 

DANTE.     Put  back  those  papers. 
SIMONE.  When  we  strip  your  corpse, 

And  make  your  suit  a  sack  to  pack  them  in. 
DANTE    (drawing   his   sword).     It   will   be   wet 

and  heavy  when  you  do, 
And  fewer  of  you  left  to  carry  it. 

(DELEGATES  draw  swords.) 
Enter — Right — the   MARQUIS   with    ATTENDANTS 

and  CINO. 
MARQUIS.     Wait ! — What  is  this  ? — You  think  we 

dwell  in  Florence? 
Or    fail    to    furnish    guests    with    knives    to 

carve 
What  leaves  our  larder? — You,  forsooth,  must 

ply 

Your  own  blades  in  each  others'  carcasses? 
DANTE.      They   seized  my   papers,   and   would 

seize  my  person. 
MARQUIS    (to    SIMONE    and    OTHERS).     Return 

the  papers,  and  return  your  persons 
To  your  own  city. 

SIMONE.  Pardon,  we  were  told 

This  traitor  would  no  longer  be  your  guest. 


DANTE.  121 

MARQUIS.     He  is  my  guest,  while  here.     I  say 
farewell. 

(He  bows  to  SIMONE  and  DELEGATES, 
toward  whom  some  of  the  ATTENDANTS 
of  the  MARQUIS  move.} 

Exeunt — Left — SIMONE     and     DELEGATES,    fol 
lowed  by  some  of  the  ATTENDANTS. 
DANTE   (to  MARQUIS).     No  guest  should  be  a 

pest  and  peril  to  you. 
MARQUIS.     Nor  I  to  him.     Till  you  decide  to 

leave  us, 

You  shall  not  lack  protection. 
DANTE.  After  that, 

My  soul  will  lack  what  more  I  need, — a  friend. 
MARQUIS.     I  wish   to  speak  to   you  of  that — • 

but  later. 

Exeunt — Right — MARQUIS  and  ATTENDANTS. 
CINO  (to  DANTE).     Where  shall  you  go? 
DANTE.  Oh,  high 

up  in  the  Alps, 

Too  high  for  anyone  to  follow  me. 
CINO.     To  be  too  high  for  that,  you  need  no 

Alps. 
DANTE.     Your  phrase  is  kindly  meant,  my  Cino, 

yet 

Conceive  how  barren,  cold,  and  colorless 
Is  life  upon  the  heights. 


122  DANTE. 

CINO.  Conceive,  as  well, 

How  far,  and  broad,  and  varied,  and  sublime 
Are  earth  and  heaven  when  these  are  seen  from 

them. 

Souls  oft  are  driven  from  our  lower  life 
That  thus  they  may  explore  for  us  the  higher. 
DANTE.     You  mean  that  when  a  man  is  bound, 

feet,  limbs, 

Trunk,  head,  he  has  no  weapon  left  him  save 
His  voice.     How  well  that  I  have  kept  these 

notes  here! 

(gesturing  toward  his  desk). 
The  slowest  lines  of  thought  are  like  the  light 
ning's 

In  this, — they  never  track  the  same  trail  twice. 

Had  these  been  lost,  they  had  been  lost  forever. 

CINO.     Your  pardon,  friend;  nor  deem  it  strange 

in  me 

That,  when  we  met,  my  spirit's  agitation 
So  wrenched  the  links  of  memory  that  they 

failed 

To  hold  together  that  which  chiefly  joined 
My  journey  hither  and  my  thought  of  you. 

(taking     the    objects    mentioned    from    his 

pocket  and  presenting  them  to  DANTE.) 
This  miniature,  Giotto's  Beatrice, 
His  work  and  gift. 


DANTE.  123 

DANTE  (taking  it  from  CINO). 

Oh,  Cino,  thank  you,  thank  you. 
How  kind  of  him  to  send  it! 
CINO  (taking  manuscripts  from  his  pocket}. 

These  were  rescued 

By  Dino  Frescobaldi  from  your  home 
What  time  the  mob  made  havoc  of  all  else.35 
DANTE  (taking  and  examining  the  manuscripts.) 
Why,   Cino,    do    you  know  what  you  have 

done? 

That  day,  when,  as  you  thought,  my  love  ap 
peared, 

She  bade  me  write  of  what  I  just  had  dreamt. 
While  fresh  in  mind  I  sketched  it,  hued  by  all 
The  glory  of  imagination's  dawn. 
'T  is  here ;  nor  since  I  lost  it,  head  or  heart 
Has  ventured  to  supply  a  substitute. 
Yet,  void  of  it,  the  path  of  thought  I  trod 
Seemed  like  a  day's  where  comes  no  sun.     But 

now — • 
CINO.     Can  mount,   and,  though  none  follow, 

make  all  hear 

Your  voice  come  crying  from  the  wilderness.36 
You  know,  in  ancient  times,  it  was  the  poets, 
Isaiah,  Jeremiah,  and  Hosea, 
Revealed  the  truth.     The  priests  could  but 
repeat  it. 


124  DANTE. 

DANTE.     And  now  ours  need  their  repertoire  re 
newed? 

CINO.     They  do ;  nor  doubt  that  poets  can  renew 
it. 

Though  no  new  message  may  inspire  them,  in 
sight 

May  often  read  through  oldest  form  new  mean 
ing. 

DANTE.     Ay,  less  the  lack  of  truth  makes  mor 
tals  fools 

Than  lack  in  thinking  of  the  truth  they  have. 

One  thing,  at  least,  my  Cino,  life  has  taught 
me, — 

That  reason's  God  must  be  a  God  of  reason. 

If  so,  there  lives  no  right  but  reason  fashions; 

Nor  is  there  aught  that  should  seem  right  to 
man 

That  fits  not  reasons  fashioned  by  himself. 

So   those   who   know   they   own   an    under 
standing, 

And  know  how  all  things  earthly  join  to  train 
it, 

Yet  think  of  God  as  all  misunderstood, 

Must  think  with  minds  whose  methods  are  the 
devil's. 

Pray  heaven  that  we  too  join  not  in  their 
error. 


DANTE.  125 

I  oft  have  asked,  my  Cino,  why  it  is 

That  all  the  world  should  hurl  at  one  like  me, 

From  state  and  church  and  home,  what  harms 

my  life 
Well    nigh    beyond    what    slew    the    martyr 

Stephen?— 

Why  must  one  live  all  buried  save  his  voice  ? — 
For  nothing? — Nay;  the  paths  of  Providence 
Were  never  plotted  yet  without  some  plan. 
If  God  be  one,  his  realm  has  unity; 
And  that  quick  blade  of  death,  which  cleaves 

the  reins 
And  splits  the  wheels  with  which  we  race 

through  life, 

Is  but  a  mystic  wand  beyond  whose  touch 
A  hidden  life  speeds  on  to  reach  the  bar 
Of  everlasting  justice.40     Where  that  waits 
What  need  to  prove?   one  merely  needs  to 

show, 

From  what  life  now  is,  what  life  shall  become. 
So  I  would  do ;  and  warn  men  not  to  take 
Mere   earth   and   sky   for  that   one   priceless 

jewel, 

The  soul,  that  they  encase.     With  gaze  on  it, 
The  men  who  keep  their  spirits  clean  and  clear 
From  touch  or  taint  of  selfishness  or  vice, 
May  oft  behold  in  depths  of  inner  life 


126  DANTE. 

Which  nearest  lie  to  nature's  inner  life, 
The  image  and  the  presence  that  reveal 
The  power  and  purposes  that  are  divine. 

Enter — Left — ATTENDANT. 
(He  bows  to  DANTE,  who  returns  the  bow.) 
ATTENDANT  (gesturing  toward  CINO). 

A  stranger  here  would  see  the  gentleman. 

Exit — Left — ATTENDANT. 
CINO.     Then  "Au  revoir, "  my  Dante.     Do  you 

know, 

Your  words  recall  what  once  our  aged  tutor, 
Latini,  taught  us? 

DANTE.  What  was  that? 

CINO.  Why,  this,— 

A  poet  like  a  poem  is  a  product. 
Exit — Left — after  shaking   hands   with   DANTE. 

CINO. 

DANTE  looks  toward  CINO,  as  he  leaves;  then, 
taking  from  his  pocket,  where  he  has 
placed  them,  the  miniature  of  Beatrice, 
and  also  the  manuscripts  brought  him, 
and  holding  them  in  his  hands,  and  gaz 
ing  at  them  fondly,  he  walks  slowly  to 
ward  the  Curtains  at  the  rear.  He 
disappears  behind  them.  A  moment 
later,  they  separate,  revealing  the  Closing 
Tableau. 


DANTE.  127 

CLOSING  TABLEAU. 

The  Piazza  di  Santa  Croce  in  Florence,  Italy. 
Backing  is  the  Church  of  Santa  Croce.  In 
front  of  it,  on  its  Pedestal,  is  the  great  Statue 
of  DANTE  as  it  now  stands.  If  thought  best, 
BEATRICE  and  OTHERS  may  be  grouped  below 

it. 

CURTAIN. 

END  OF  THE  DRAMA. 


NOTES  UPON  DANTE 

1  ' '  When  first  the  glorious  lady  of  my  mind  was  made 
manifest  to  mine  eyes,  even  she  who  was  called  Beatrice, 
.  .  .  she  appeared  to  me  at  the  beginning  of  her 
ninth  year  almost,  and  I  saw  her  almost  at  the  end  of 
my  ninth  year.  Her  dress  on  that  day  was  of  a  most 
noble  color,  a  subdued  and  goodly  crimson,  girded  and 
adorned  in  such  a  sort  as  best  suited  with  her  very 
tender  age.  At  that  moment,  I  say  most  truly  that  the 
spirit  of  life,  which  hath  its  dwelling  in  the  secretest 
chamber  of  the  heart,  began  to  tremble  so  violently  that 
the  least  pulses  of  my  body  shook  therewith. 
In  my  boyhood  I  often  went  in  search  of  her,  and  found 
her  so  noble  and  praiseworthy  that  certainly  of  her 
might  have  been  said  those  words  of  the  poet  Homer, 


128  DANTE. 

'  she  seemed  to  me  the  daughter  not  of  a  mortal  man  but 
of  God.'" — Dante's  La  Vita  Nuova,  pp.  23,  24,  26,  from 
the  translation,  as  are  all  other  of  the  following  quotations 
from  the  same,  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 

2  "To  the  Florentine  poets  of  this  new  school  belonged 
.     .     .     Dino  Frescobaldi.     .     .     .     But  the  great 
est  of  them  are  Guido  Cavalcanti,  Cino  de'  Sinibuldi  da 
Pistoja,  and,  in  his  youthful  poems,  Dante  himself." — 
Federn's  Dante  and  His  Time,  p.  132. 

3  "After  the  lapse  of  so  many  days  that  nine  years 
exactly  were  completed  since  the  above  written  appear 
ance  of  this  most  gracious  being,  on  the  last  of  those 
days  it  happened  that  the  same  wonderful  lady  ap 
peared   to  me  dressed  all  in  pure  white  between  two 
gentle  ladies.     .    .    .    She  turned  her  eyes  thither  where 
I  stood  sorely  abashed.     .     .     .     She  saluted  me  with 
so  virtuous  a  bearing  that  I  seemed  then  and  there  to 
behold  the  very  limits  of  blessedness.     The  hour  of  her 
most  sweet  salutation  was  exactly  the  ninth  of  that  day ; 
and  because  it  was  the  first  time  that  any  words  from 
her  reached  mine  ears,  I  came  into  such  sweetness  that 
I  parted  thence  as  one  intoxicated." — La  Vita  Nuova, 
p.  27. 

4  "Of  the  poems  contained  in  the  book  (La  Vita 
Nuova)  the  first,  as  Dante  himself  informs  us,  was  com 
posed  in   his  eighteenth  year.     .     .     .     According  to 
the  custom  of  his  time,  he  sent  it  to  several  poets,  who 
answered    it.     Some    of    these    answers    are    extant. 
Among  them  is  a  sonnet  by   Guido   Cavalcanti." — 
Federn's  Dante  and  his  Time,  pp.  204,  205. 


NOTES  UPON  DANTE.  129 

s"  It  is  interesting  to  read  in  Dino's  book,  who  equally 
belonged  to  the  White  party,  by  what  reasons,  accord 
ing  to  his  opinion,  influential  Florentines  had  been  de 
cided  to  follow  either  party.  Guido  Cavalcanti  had 
done  so  'because  he  was  a  personal  enemy  of  Corso 
Donati.'" — Federn's  Dante  and  His  Time,  p.  172. 

6 "As  I  sat  alone,  I  betook  myself  to  draw  the  resem 
blance  of  an  angel  upon  certain  tablets.  And  while  I 
did  thus,  chancing  to  turn  my  head,  I  perceived  that 
some  were  standing  beside  me  to  whom  I  should  have 
given  courteous  welcome,  and  that  they  were  ob 
serving  what  I  did;  also,  I  learned  afterwards  that 
they  had  been  there  a  while  before  I  perceived 
them." — La  Vita  Nuova,  p.  135. 

*  "What  time  she  made  ready  to  salute  me,  the  spirit 
of  love  destroying  all  other  perceptions,  thrust  forth  the 
feeble  spirits  of  mine  eyes,  saying,  'Do  homage  unto 
your  mistress,'  and,  putting  itself  in  their  place  to 
obey;  so  that  he  who  would  might  then  have  beheld 
Love,  beholding  the  lids  of  mine  eyes  shake,  And  when 
this  most  gentle  lady  gave  her  salutation,  Love  .  .  . 
bred  in  me  such  an  overpowering  sweetness  that  my 
body,  being  all  subjected  thereto,  remained  many 
times  helpless  and  passive." — La  Vita  Nuova,  pp.  46,  47. 

8"I  was  in  a  place  whence  mine  eyes  could  behold 
their  beatitude;  and  betwixt  me  and  her,  in  a  direct 
line,  there  sat  another  lady  of  a  pleasant  favor;  who 
looked  round  at  me  many  times,  marveling  at  my  con 
tinued  gaze  which  seemed  to  have  her  for  its  object. 
And  many  perceived  that  she  thus  looked;  so  that,  de- 
9 


130  DANTE. 

parting  hence,  I  heard  it  whispered  after  me,  'Look 
you  to  what  a  pass  such  a  lady  hath  brought  him ' ;  and 
in  saying  this  they  named  her  who  had  been  midway 
between  the  most  gentle  Beatrice  and  mine  eyes. 
Therefore  I  was  reassured,  and  knew  that,  for  that 
day,  my  secret  had  not  been  become  manifest.  Then 
immediately  it  came  into  my  mind  that  I  might  make 
use  of  this  lady  as  a  screen  to  the  truth,  and  so  well  did 
I  play  my  part  that  the  most  of  those  who  had  hitherto 
watched  and  wondered  at  me,  now  imagined  they  had 
found  me  out.  By  her  means  I  kept  my  secret  con 
cealed  so  till  some  years  were  gone  over;  and,  for 
my  better  security,  I  even  made  divers  rhymes  in  her 
honor." — La  Vita  Nuova,  pp.  33,  34. 

9  "He  (Cavalcanti)  was  married  for  political  reasons. 
.  .  .  Rossetti  sees  a  tendency  in  him  to  mingle 
'the  perversity  of  a  logician'  with  'his  amorous  poe 
try.'" — Ragg's  Dante  and  His  Italy,  pp.  270,  282.  .  .  . 
"His  father,  Cavalcanti,  was  a  notorious  sceptic  and 
materialist.  .  .  .  Guido,  too,  passed  for  a  sceptic." 
— Federn's  Dante  and  His  Time,  p.  199. 

1  o  "  Then,  musing  on  what  I  had  seen,  I  proposed  to 
relate  the  same  to  many  poets  who  were  famous  in 
that  day;  and,  for  that  I  had  made  myself  in  some  sort 
the  art  of  discoursing  with  rhyme,  I  resolved  on  making 
a  sonnet.  ...  I  determined  that  I  would  make 
a  grievous  sonnet  thereof  the  which  I  will  write  here, 
because  it  hath  certain  words  in  it  whereof  my  lady 
was  the  immediate  cause.  These  words  I  laid  up  with 
great  gladness.  .  .  .  Wherefore  having  returned  to 
the  city  I  spake  of,  and  considered  thereof  during  cer- 


NOTES  UPON  DANTE.  131 

tain  days,  I  began  a  poem.  .  .  .  After  I  had  re 
covered  from  my  sickness,  I  bethought  me  to  write 
these  things  in  rhyme;  deeming  it  a  lovely  thing  to  be 
known.  .  .  .  And  to  the  end  that  this  inward 
strife  which  I  had  undergone  might  not  be  hidden  from 
all  saving  the  miserable  wretch  who  endured  it,  I 
proposed  to  write  a  sonnet  and  to  comprehend  in  it 
this  horrible  condition.  .  .  .  And  because  I  would 
willingly  have  spoken  to  them,  if  it  had  not  been  for 
discreetness,  I  made  in  my  rhymes  as  though  I  had 
spoken,  and  they  had  answered  me.  And  thereof  I 
wrote  two  sonnets;  in  the  first  of  which  I  addressed 
them  as  I  would  fain  have  done;  and  in  the  second  re 
lated  their  answer  as  though  it  had  been  spoken  unto 
myself." — From  Dante's  own  accounts  in  the  Vita 
Nuova  of  his  method  of  accepting  from  his  experiences 
suggestions  for  his  poems,  pp.  29,  35,  87,  95,  142. 

11  "To  this  sonnet  I  received  many  answers,  convey 
ing  many  different  opinions ;  of  the  which  one  was  sent 
by  him  whom  I  now  call  the  first  among  my  friends. 
.   .   .  And  indeed  it  was  when  he  learned  that  I  was  he 
who  had  sent  those  rhymes  to  him,  that  our  friendship 
commenced"  (The  friend  of  whom  Dante  here  speaks 
was    Guido    Cavalcanti — Rossetti).     La  Vita    Nuova 

P-  3i- 

"The  responsive  sonnet  breathes  a  spirit  of  encour 
agement  and  comfort;  it  is  the  elder  poet  taking  the 
younger  by  the  hand  and  bidding  him  be  of  good  cheer." 
— Ragg's  Dante  and  His  Italy,  p.  283. 

12  Seeing  that  the  epistle  I  speak  of  is  in  Latin,  it 
belongeth  not  to  mine  undertaking;  more  especially 


132  DANTE. 

as  I  know  that  my  chief  friend,  for  whom  I  write  this 
book,  wished  also  that  the  whole  of  it  should  be  in  the 
vulgar  tongue." — La  Vita  Nuova,  pp.  123,  124. 

is  "In  the  year  1289  Dante  .  .  .  took  part  in 
the  battle  of  Campaldino  where  the  Florentine  Guelfs, 
15,000  men  strong,  defeated  the  Ghibellines  and  the 
people  of  Arezzo.  .  .  .  Dante  served  ...  at 
the  siege  of  the  castle  of  Caprona  ...  in  August 
of  the  same  year." — Federn's  Dante  and  His  Time, 
pp.  201,  202. 

»*"When  I  behold  Bacchina  in  a  rage 
Just  like  a  little  lad  I  trembling  stand 
Whose  master  tells  him  to  hold  out  his  hand. — 
Cecco   Angiolieri,    another    of  Dante's    literary  friends 
who  sings  the  praises  of  his  rather  shrewish  lady-love, 
Bacchina.1' — Ragg's  Dante  and  His  Italy,  p.  197. 

»s  "From  that  time  forward,  Love  quite  governed 
my  soul.  ...  I  had  nothing  left  for  it  but  to  do 
all  his  bidding  continually  .  .  .  albeit  her  image 
.  .  .  was  yet  of  so  perfect  a  quality  that  it  never 
allowed  me  to  be  overruled  by  Love  without  the  faith 
ful  counsel  of  reason  whensoever  such  counsel  was 
useful." — La  Vita  Nuova,  pp.  25,  26. 

16  "Cosmo  Donati  was  the  leader  of  the  Blacks — 'a 
knight  after  the  fashion  of  the  Roman  Catiline,  but 
more  cruel  than  he,  of  noble  blood  and  handsome 
appearance,  a  perfect  orator  with  the  finest  man 
ners,  acutest  mind  and  the  very  worst  disposition, ' 
that  is  Dino  Compagni's  description  of  him.  The  very 


NOTES  UPON  DANTE.  133 

beginning  of  his  career  was  a  violence  done  to  law,  for 
he  liberated  a  criminal  of  noble  birth  with  armed  force. 
In  the  battle  of  Campaldino,  it  was  he  who  decided  the 
victory  by  a  cavalry  attack  which  he  had  been  for 
bidden  under  penalty  of  death,  to  make." — Federn's 
Dante  and  His  Time,  pp.  171,  172. 

i*"In  the  year  1289,  the  one  preceding  the  death 
of  Beatrice,  Dante  served  with  the  foremost  cavalry 
in  the  great  battle  of  Campaldino,  .  .  .  when  the 
Florentines  defeated  the  people  of  Arezzo." — Introduc 
tion  to  Dante's  Vita  Nuova,  by  D.  Rossetti. 

18  "It  came  into  my  mind  that  I  might  make  use  of 
this  lady  as  a  screen  to  the  truth ;  and  so  well  did  I  play 
my  part  that  those  who  had  hitherto  watched  and  won 
dered  at  me,  now  imagined  they  had  found  me  out. 

I  made  her  my  surety  in  such  sort  that  the 
matter  was  spoken  of  by  many  in  terms  scarcely 
courteous;  through  the  which  I  had  oftenwhiles  many 
troublesome  hours.  And  by  this  it  happened  (to  wit, 
by  this  false  and  evil  rumor  which  seemed  to  misfame 
me  of  vice)  that  she  who  was  the  destroyer  of  all  evil 
and  the  queen  of  all  good,  coming  where  I  was,  denied 
me  her  most  sweet  salutation,  in  the  which  alone  was 
my  blessedness." — La  Vita  Nuova,  pp.  33,  45. 

19  "In  her  salutation  alone  was  there  any  beatitude 
for  me.     .     .     .     When,  for  the  first  time,  this  beati 
tude  was  denied  me,   I    became  possessed  with    such 
grief  that,  parting  myself  from  others,  I  went  into  a 
lonely  place  to  bathe  the  ground  with  most  bitter  tears." 
— La  Vita  Nuova,  p.  47. 


134  DANTE. 

2  °  ' '  This  excellent  lady  came  into  such  favor  with  all 
men  that  not  only  she  herself  was  honored  and  com 
mended,  but  through  her  companionship  honor  and 
commendation  came  unto  others.  .  .  .  When 
she  drew  near  unto  any,  so  much  truth  and  simplicity 
entered  into  his  heart  .  .  .  she  showed  herself  so 
gentle  and  so  full  of  all  perfection,  that  she  bred  in 
those  who  looked  upon  her  a  soothing  quiet  beyond 
any  speech." — La  Vita  Nuova,  pp.  115,  112,  113. 

21  "I,  as  was  my  friend's  pleasure,  resolved  to  stand 
with  him  and  do  honor  to  those  ladies.     But  soon  as  I 
had  thus  resolved,  I  began  to  feel  a  faintness  and  a 
throbbing  at  my  left  side,  which  soon  took  possession 
of  my  whole  body.     Whereupon     .     .     .     being  fearful 
lest   my   trembling  should   be   discerned   of  them,    I 
lifted  mine  eyes  to  look  on  those  ladies,  and  then  first 
perceived  among  them  the  excellent  Beatrice.     And 
when  I  perceived  her,  all  my  senses  were  overpowered, 
by    the    great    lordship    that    love    obtained,    finding 
himself  so  near     .     .     .     until  nothing  but  the  spirits 
of  sight  remained  in  me;  and  even  these  remained 
driven  out  of  their  own  instruments. ' ' — La  Vita  Nuova, 
P-  59- 

22  "  I  received  the  visit  of  a  friend  whom  I  counted  as 
second  unto  me  in  the  degrees  of  friendship  (Cino)  and 
who,  moreover,  had  been  united  by  the  nearest  kindred 
to  that  most  gracious  creature.     And  when  we  had  a  lit 
tle  spoken  together,  he  began  to  solicit  me  that  I  should 
write  somewhat  in  memory  of  a  lady  who  had  died; 
and  he  disguised  his  speech  so  as  to  seem  to  be  speaking 
of    another  who  was    but  lately  dead;    wherefore,    I, 


NOTES  UPON  DANTE.  135 

perceiving  that  his  speech  was  of  none  other  than  that 
blessed  one  herself,  told  him  that  it  should  be  done 
as  he  required." — La  Vita  Nuova,  p.  130. 

23  "After  this  most  gracious  creature  had  gone  out 
from  among  us,  the  whole  city  came  to  be,  as  it  were, 
widowed  and  despoiled  of  all  its  dignity." — La    Vita 
Nuova,  p.  123. 

24  "Then  having  sat  for  some  space  sorely  in  thought 
because  of  the  time  that  was  now  past,  I  was  so  filled 
with    dolorous    imaginings  that  it  became  outwardly 
manifest   in   mine   altered   countenance.     Whereupon 
feeling  this,  and  being  in  dread  lest  any  should  have 
seen  me,  I  lifted  mine  eyes  to  look;  and  then  per 
ceived  a  young  and  very  beautiful  lady.     ...     It 
happened  after  this  that,  whenever  I  was  seen  of  this 
lady,  she  became  pale  and  of  a  piteous  countenance,  as 
though  it  had  been  with  love;  whereby  she  remembered 
me  many  times  of  my  own  most  noble  lady  who  was 
wont   to   be   of   a   like   paleness." — La    Vita   Nuova, 
pp.  138,  140. 

25  "At  length  by  the  constant  sight  of  this  lady,  mine 
eyes  began  to  be  gladdened  overmuch  with  her  com 
pany,  through  which  many  times  I  had  unrest  and  re 
buked  myself  as  a  base  person;   also  many  times   I 
cursed   the  unsteadfastness  of  mine  eyes." — La  Vita 
Nuova,  pp.  141,  142. 

26  "The  Pope  by  secret  understanding  with  the  Blacks 
sent  the  French  Prince,  Charles  of  Valois,  as '  pacificator ' 
to  Florence.     'He  came  with  the  lance  of  Judas,'  Dante 
says." — Federn's  Dante  and  His  Time,  p.  245. 


136  DANTE. 

27  "  Dante  was  no  longer  a  religious  pilgrim  but  a  po 
litical  ambassador.      'Why    are    you    Florentines    so 
obstinate?'  said  the  Pope.     .     .     .     'Go  back,  two  of 
you,'  he  said,  'and  they  shall  have  my  benediction 
if  they  procure  that  my  will  be  obeyed.'     .     .     .     Two 
to  go,  and  one  to  stay.     .     .     .     Which  of  the  three 
shall  it  be?     Boniface  had  seen  Dante  face  to  face; 
here  was  the  man  who  might  thwart  him.     Better  to 
keep  this  one  in  honorable  imprisonment  till  the  thing 
should  be  over  and  done.     Was  it  not  during  these 
months  when  he  was  forced  into  unsympathetic  in 
timacy  with  the  inner  life  of  St.  Peter's    .    .    .    that  he 
acquired  that  fine  scorn  of  the  venal  and  simoniacal 
Roma  Cura  which  made  him  declare,  in  after  years, 
that  during  this  very  year  of  Jubilee  his  exile  was  being 
planned  in  the  place  where  all  day  long  they  made  mer 
chandise  of  Christ."  —  Ragg's  Dante  and  His  Italy,  pp. 
32,  33- 

28  "Dante's  own  estimate  of  Cino  is  clear  from  the 
abundant  references  in  the  Eloquentia  where  Dante 
habitually  speaks  of  himself  as  'Cino's  friend.'     .     .     . 
The  first  and  strongest  bond  of  sympathy  was  that 
sympathy  of  mind  and  taste."  —  Dante  and  His  Italy; 

,  pp.  286,  287. 


29  "Witchcraft  and  necromacy  were  normal  factors 
in  daily  life."  —  Ragg's  Dante  and  His  Italy,  p.  144. 
"Divination  and  necromancy  were  largely  resorted 
to  in  moments  of  crisis."  —  Idem.,  p.  143.  "So  great 
a  hold  had  these  mission  preachers  on  the  popular 
imagination,  that  a  very  general  belief  was  entertained 
in  their  miraculous  powers,  and  some  of  them  had  the 


NOTES  UPON  DANTE.  137 

reputation  of  being  able  to  raise  the  dead." — Idem,  pp. 
97,  98.  "The  Florentines  whose  reputation  for  wit 
was  .  .  .  great  ...  on  hearing  that  the  Domini 
can  John  of  Vicenza  contemplated  a  visit  to  Florence 
cried  out  in  mock  alarm:  'For  heaven's  sake 
don't  let  him  come  here.  For  we  have  heard  that  he 
raises  the  dead,  and  we  are  already  so  many  that  our 
city  will  scarcely  hold  us.'  " — Idem.,  p.  200. 

3°  "  After  writing  this  sonnet,  it  was  given  unto  me  to 
behold  a  very  wonderful  vision,  wherein  I  saw  things 
which  determined  me  that  I  would  say  nothing  further 
of  this  most  blessed  one  until  such  time  as  I  could  dis 
course  more  worthily  concerning  her.  And  to  this  end 
I  labor  all  I  can,  as  she  well  knoweth.  Wherefore 
if  it  be  his  pleasure  through  whom  is  the  life  of  all 
things,  that  my  life  continue  with  me  a  few  years,  it 
is  my  hope  that  I  shall  yet  write  concerning  her  what 
hath  not  before  been  written  of  any  woman.  After 
which  may  it  seem  good  unto  him  who  is  the  Master  of 
Grace  that  my  spirit  should  go  hence  to  behold  the 
glory  of  its  lady;  to  wit,  of  that  blessed  Beatrice  who 
now  gazeth  continually  on  his  countenance  qui  est 
omnia  sacula  benedictus.  Laus  Deo." — The  concluding 
paragraph  of  La  Vita  Nuova,  p.  159.  "As  he  ex 
plains  it,  the  heavenly  powers  by  mediation  of  loving 
and  friendly  spirits  had  so  decreed  it  that  his  soul 
should  be  shown  the  way  through  the  metaphysical 
realms  where  he  could  see  the  terrible  retribution  of 
God's  justice  and  be  satisfied." — Federn's  Dante  and  His 
Time,  p.  269.  From  the  accounts  given,  we  must  infer 
that  Dante  supposed  himself  to  have  had  an  external 
vision  of  Beatrice,  clearly  separated  from  that  which 


138  DANTE. 

might  be  experienced  in  a  mere  dream:  and  that  this 
vision  made  "through  the  mediation  of  loving  and 
friendly  spirits,"  was  of  such  a  character  as  to  cause 
him  to  spend  most  of  the  rest  of  his  life  developing  from 
his  own  imagination  the  general  conception  of  justice 
underlying  his  great  poem.  The  scene  in  Act  Fourth  of 
this  drama  represents  a  very  common,  if  not  the  most 
common,  way  in  which,  in  all  ages,  men  have  been  led 
to  suppose  themselves  to  have  had  an  external  vision 
of  one  dead;  as  well  as  the  most  common  way  in  which, 
having  had  it,  the  vision  has  induced  them  to  develop 
the  general  thought  which,  at  the  time  of  having  it, 
has  controlled  them.  The  fact  that  Dante,  so  frank 
with  reference  to  every  other  experience  related  in 
La  Vita  Nuova,  never  explained  the  circumstances  or 
character  of  this  vision,  is  in  exact  accord  with  what  we 
should  expect  from  a  wise  man  conscious  of  the  possi 
bilities  of  delusion  and  deception  connected  with  an 
experience  such  as  is  depicted  in  the  drama.  He  would 
not  have  risked  the  danger  of  being  thought  a  consulter 
of  sorcerers,  many  of  whom  in  those  times  were  dis 
reputable  violators  of  the  law,  or  of  being  thought  a 
dupe  of  a  monk  of  the  church,  following  their  practices 
in  a  supposed  more  legitimate  way.  At  the  same  time, 
in  the  circumstances,  notwithstanding  much  that 
could  not  absolutely  convince  himself,  much  less  others, 
it  is  perfectly  conceivable  that  the  poet's  sympathetic 
and  imaginative  nature  should  have  been  so  profoundly 
influenced  by  the  possibilities  suggested  by  what  he 
had  experienced  that  this  should  have  had  a  formative 
effect  upon  his  whole  career. — The  Author. 

31  "The  sight  of  this  lady  brought  me  into  so  un- 


NOTES  UPON  DANTE.  139 

wonted  a  condition  that  I  often  thought  of  her  as  one 
too  dear  to  me;  and  I  began  to  consider  her  thus.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  it  was  Love  himself  who  set  her  in  my 
path,  so  that  my  life  might  find  peace.  And  there 
were  times  when  I  thought  yet  more  fondly,  until  my 
heart  consented  unto  its  reasoning.  But,  when  it  had 
so  consented,  my  thought  would  often  turn  round  upon 
me  as  moved  by  reason  and  cause  me  to  say  within  my 
self,  '  What  hope  is  this  which  would  console  me  after 
so  base  a  fashion?'" — La  Vita  Nuova,  p.  144.  "Boc 
caccio  tells  us  that  Dante  was  married  to  Gemma  Don- 
ati  about  a  year  after  the  death  of  Beatrice.  Can 
Gemma  then  be  the  '  lady '  .  .  .  his  love  for  whom 
Dante  so  condemns?" — Rossetti's  note  on  the  preceding 
passage. 

32  "At  the  burial  of  a  lady  of  the  Frescobaldi  fam 
ily,  a  man's  movements  that  had  been  misunderstood, 
had    caused    bloodshed.     ...     In    the    year    1300, 
while  Dante  was  one  of  the  priors,  they  made  an  at 
tempt  to  insure  peace  by  banishing  the  most  unruly 
chiefs  of  both  parties.     Among  the  exiled  blacks  was 
Corso  Donati,  while  Dante,  with  his  severe  sense  of 
justice,  had  suffered   his  friend  Cavalcanti  to  be  con 
fined  at  Sarzana,  where  he  fell  ill  from  the  unhealthy 
climate,  and  died  .     .     two  months  later." — Federn's 
Dante  and  His  Time,  p.  240.    "  'This  unhappy  Priorate,' 
he  once  said,  'was  the  cause  of  all  my  misfortune.'" — 
Idem.,  p.  240. 

33  "Dante  at   this  time  contracted   such  enormous 
debts   that   many   years  later   the   family   saw   itself 


140  DANTE. 

constrained  to  sell  estates  to  pay  them." — Federn's 
Dante  and  His  Time,  p.  239. 

34  "The  decree  against  Dante  which  to  this  day  may 
be  read  in  the  so-called  Libro  del  Chiode  in  the  archive 
of    Florence.     .     .     .     Dante    and    four    others    are 
condemned  for  peculation,  fraud,   extortion,   bribery, 
and  rebellion  against  the  Pope  and  Charles     ...     as 
proof,  public  fame  is  alleged.     .     .     .     Having  failed 
to  appear  in  court,  all  the  accused  in  it  were  declared 
outlaws  and  exiles  in  perpetuity,  and  if  ever  one  of 
them  should  be  caught  on  Florence  soil  he  should  be 
burned  alive." — Federn's  Dante  and  His  Time,  pp.  246, 
247- 

35  "Then  there  is  Dino  Frescobaldi,  'famous  rhymer 
of  Florence,'  through  whom,  if  Boccaccio  is  to  be  trusted 
Dante  received  back  in  exile  the  original  draft  of  the 
first  seven  cantos  of  the  Inferno." — Ragg's  Dante  and 
His  Italy,  p.  273.     "They  had  been  left  behind,  with 
everything  else,  in  Florence.     .     .     .     hurriedly  con 
cealed     .     .     .     when    he    was    exiled.     .     .     .     And 
with  the  manuscript,  says  Boccaccio,  came  a  fervent 
letter  to  the  Marquis     .     .     .     urging  him  to  persuade 
Dante  to  continue  so  great  a  work.     And  so,  at  the 
urgent  plea  of  his  host  Dante  was  induced  to  proceed. 

And  for  this  good  advice  of  the  Malaspina 
Dante  was  so  grateful,  says  Benvenuto,  that  he  could 
never  say  anything  good  enough  of  the  family." — 
Idem.,  pp.  332,  333. 

36  "Cino     .     .     was    exiled     .     .     five    years    after 
Dante  had  been  cast  out  of  Florence,  in  1307,  the  mem- 


NOTES  UPON  DANTE.  141 

orable  year  of  the  advent  of  Henry  VII.  .  .  .  One 
of  Cino's  poems  deserves  the  lasting  approbation  of 
posterity,  for  in  it  he  urges  Dante  to  continue  his  great 
poem  and  so  redeem  the  pledge  given  at  the  end  of  the 
Vita  Nuova," — Ragg's  Dante  and  His  Italy,  pp.  286,  287. 

37  "In  the  year  1310,  Henry  of  Luxemburg  came  to 
Italy.  By  no  one  was  he  saluted  with  such  exultation 
as  by  Dante.  He  wrote  letters  full  of  wild  and  trium 
phant  joy  to  Rome  and  Florence  and  to  all  princes  of 
Italy.  He  had  an  audience  with  the  Emperor;  and  in 
his  letters  he  calls  him  the  'new  Moses'  and  'the  Lamb 
of  God.'  He  was  full  of  the  most  ardent  hopes  .  .  . 
but  the  enterprise  failed,  and  the  Emperor  died  at 
Buonconvento  on  August  24,  1312.  .  •  .  What 
Dante  felt  at  this  blow  he  never  expressed.  Now  all 
was  over,  all  hope  gone  forever.  .  .  .  Again  he 
wandered  a  banished  fugitive  on  unknown  ways." — 
Federn's  Dante  and  His  Time,  p.  262. 

ss  "This  then  has  been  signified  to  me  through  the 
letters  ...  of  several  friends  that  if  I  were  willing 
to  pay  a  certain  sum  of  money  and  submit  to  the  stigma 
of  being  offered  up  as  a  sin-offering,  I  might  be  pardoned 
and  return  at  once.  .  .  .  Far  from  a  man 
be  the  reckless  humility  of  a  heart  of  dirt  that  would 
allow  him  like  a  certain  Cioli  ...  to  make  an 
offering  of  himself,  as  if  he  were  a  caitiff.  ...  If 
any  other  way  can  be  discerned  which  does  not  touch 
the  fame  of  Dante  and  his  honor,  that  I  will  accept 
with  alacrity.  But  if  by  no  such  way,  Florence  is  to 
be  entered,  then  Florence  I  shall  never  enter." — Letter 


142  DANTE. 

of  Dante  tr.  on  page  127  of  A  Handbook  to  Dante  by 
Thomas  Davidson. 

39  "Some  suppose  the  individual  in  question  to  be  a 
certain  Lippo  Lapi  Cioli,  who  among  others  is  said  to 
have  been  allowed  to  return  to  Florence  in  1316  on  con 
dition  that  he  should  walk  behind  the  Carroccio  with  a 
fool's   cap  on   his   head,    etc." — Dictionary  of  Proper 
Names,  etc.,  in  the  Works  of  Dante  by  Paget  Trynbee. 

40  "Already  at  the  time  when  Beatrice  had  been  lost 
to  him,  and  his  thoughts  followed  her  into  the  other 
world,  his  mind  was  deeply  and  intensely  occupied  with 
the    Invisible,    and   his   imagination   attracted   by   its 
glories  and   hidden  terrors     .     .     .     His  eye  pierced 
through   the  boundaries  of  time  and  space  into  the 
surrounding  sphere  of  eternity;  the  wrongs  done  here 
were  repaired  and  punished  there.     To  see  this,  it  had 
become  necessary  or,  as  he  explains  it,  the  heavenly 
power  by  mediation  of  loving  and  friendly  spirits  had 
so  decreed  that    his  soul  should    be  shown    the    way 
through  the  metaphysical  realms  where  he  could  see  the 
terrible  retribution  of  God's  justice  and  be  satisfied. 

The  state  of  horrible  crime  on  earth  was  not 
all — the  last  word  was  not  spoken  here — he  could  be 
calmer  and  endure  all  knowing  what  was  to  follow." — 
Federn's  Dante  and  His  Time,  pp.  268,  269. 


MOUNTAINS  ABOUT  WILLIAMSTOWN 


143 


GREYLOCK. 

CRIEND  of  my  youth,  my  first  of  mountain 

friends, 

Friend  long  before  I  saw  thee,  in  the  days 
When,  dwelling  in  a  realm  of  endless  plains, 
Those  whom  thy  shade  had  haunted  pointed 

out 
The   clouds,    and   bade   me   find   thine   image 

there, — • 
With   what   delight   my   heart   first   welcomed 

thee! 
And  then,  like  one  whose  form  lies  prone  in 

sleep, 

My  young  imagination  woke  and  rose 
And   strove  to   climb,   and   heaven  alone  can 

tell 

How  wisely  has  been  climbing  ever  since. 
With  what  delight,  day  after  day,  for  years, 
My  eyes  would  watch  thee  looming  through 

the  light 

Of  early  morn,  and  how  they  since  have  longed 
For  thee  when  absent !     Nor,  at  any  time — 

10  145 


146     MOUNTAINS  ABOUT  WILLIAMSTOWN. 

Not  after  years  had  parted  us — did  not 
The  sight  of  thee  outdo  all  expectation. 

The  works  of  human  art  may  lose  their  charm. 
The  picture,  statue,  building,  wear  no  mail 
That  can  resist  the  subtle  shafts  of  time. 
Their  brightest  color  fades,  their  bronze  corrodes, 
Their    carving    crumbles,     and    their    marble 

falls. 
Oft,   too,   when   one   has   wandered   far   from 

home, 
And  craves  the  things  he  once  thought  wrought 

so  well, 

The  soul's  enlargement  of  the  treasures  missed 
That  each  may  fit  a  niche  of  larger  longing 
Will    make    all    seem,    when    seen    again,    but 

small, 

And,  tested  by  the  touch  of  present  fact, 
But  fabrics  of  a  dream  conjured  by  fancy. 
Not  so  with  works  of  Nature.     Years  that  pass 
May  make  the  field  more  brilliant  with  more 

flowers, 

The  ore  more  precious  and  the  cave  more  vast, 
And  every  mount,  at  our  renewed  return, 
Soar  higher  like  thick  smoke  above  a  flame 
Fanned  into  ardor  by  the  panting  breath 
Of  fleet-sped  winds  that  rush  to  its  embrace. 


GREY  LOCK.  147 

And  so  with  thee,  0  Greylock!     Thou  art  yet 
More  grand,  more  beautiful,  than  when,  of  yore, 
I  sought  thee,  in  that  earliest  rash  attempt 
To  climb  thy  hights  by  scaling  first  the  steeps 
Of    Prospect,    pulled    through    thorny    under 
brush 

From  limb  to  limb,  like  some  primeval  man 
When  mounting  rounds  of  some  Ygdrasil  tree; 
Or  when  I  tried  that  long,  but  shorter,  course 
That  first  essays  Bald  Mountain;  or,  again, 
Sought    first    the  Notch.     To-day,   as    always 

comes 

That  sense  of  restful  triumph  when  one  nears 
Those  overshadowing  forests  that  emboss 
That   glorious   bowl,   the   Hopper! — when   one 

treads 

Those  winding  paths  amid  thick  arching  trees 
Where,  in  the  lack  of  outlook,  naught  can  solve 
The  mystery  of  the  hight  save  lungs  that  breathe 
The  thrill  and  uplift  of  a  purer  air ; 
And  where,  like  spirits  that  have  been  inspired 
But  never  can  be  conscious  how  or  when, 
Keen  thoughts  will  still  outpace  achievement, 

till, 

All  suddenly,  upon  the  eye  will  burst 
The  unobstructed  vision  from  thy  peak, — 
The  hills  that  sweep  from  Adams  at  thy  base 


148     MOUNTAINS  ABOUT  WILLIAMSTOWN. 

To  far  Monadnock  and  the  emulous  mounts 
That   rise,   as  if  from  crowds  that   would  be 

counted, 
Above  the  hardly  hid  Connecticut. 

Oh,  some  may  praise  the  plain!     It  has  its  use 
For  plow  and  reaper,  railway  and  canal ; 
But  all  that  human  hand  could  ever  plant 
Or  thought  invent,  or  energy  transport 
Could    never,    through    long    ages,    bring    to 
gether 

What  here  were  gathered  in  a  few  short  hours, — 
A  wealth  of  mound  and  meadow  to  suffice 
For  many  a  county,  all  rolled  up  in  one, 
A  hundred  miles  of  surface  in  a  score, 
A  score  of  climates  in  a  single  mile, 
And  all  the  treasury  of  plant  or  rock 
From  half  a  continent  arrayed  against 
The  slopes  that  flank  a  solitary  valley. 
Who  says  there  are  no  wiser  views  of  life 
Where  every  view  displays  a  wider  range? 
More  blest  a  decade  spent  in  scenes  like  this 
Than  ages  in  some  never-ending  plain. 

And  what  of  those  here  who  can  never  climb 
These  hights,  or   gaze   upon   their  heaven-like 
vision  ? — 


GREY  LOCK.  149 

Did  ever  yet  a  form  appear  on  earth 
Divine  in  mission  that  would  fail  to  bless 
Those,  too,  who  could  but  touch  its  garment's 

hem? 

As  long  as  thinking  can  be  shaped  by  things, 
And    that  which    holds  our  life  can  mold  our 

love, 

What  soul  can  seek  the  skies  with  wistful  gaze 
And  be  content  with  only  soil  below? 
Oh,  does  it  profit  naught  that  one  should  dwell 
Amid  surroundings  that  no  eyes  can  see 
Save  as  they  look  above,  no  feet  can  leave, 
To  seek  the  outer  world,  save  as  they  climb? 
Where  every  prospect  homes  itself  on  high, 
And  each  horizon  seems  a  haunt  of  heaven? 
One  might  believe,  O  Mount,  as  on  thy  sides 
The  thumb-marks  of  the  Hopper  show  them 
selves, 

That  thou  wast  made  a  handle,  humpt  and  huge, 
Which  some  magician  of  the  sky  could  wield 
While  in  the  hollow  basin  at  thy  base 
All  things  were  lifted  to  a  loftier  life ! 

How  blest  the  child  whose  thought  begins  to 

build 

Ideals  of  deeds  on  dreams  that,  morn  by  morn, 
Awake  to  greet  a  mother's  flushing  face 


150     MOUNTAINS  ABOUT  WILLIAMSTOWN. 

That  bends  above  his  cradle !     Many  a  soul 
Reared    in    these    valleys    where,    like    mighty 

sides 

Of  some  far  grander  cradle,  lift  these  hills, 
And  where  in  bleakest  wintry  skies  appears 
Thy  mountain's  white  brow  warmed  with  flush 

of  dawn, 

Has  waked  to  see  thee,  day  by  day,  until 
The  habit  grew  a  part  of  life  itself 
And  ruled  his  being, — that  whatever  light 
Left  heaven  or  lit  the  earth  would  find  his  form 
In  paths  where  it  was  always  moving  upward. 


BERLIN  MOUNTAIN. 

HTHIS  world  is  wider  than  the  range  of  work, 
*       Nor  shows  its  worth  through  merely  gar 
nered  gains. 

Yon  barren  mount  where  only  scrub  oaks  grow 
May  yield,  at  times,  a  harvest  for  the  soul 
More  rich  than  ever  filled  the  fertilest  farm. 
Think  not  that  every  leaf  that  sprouts  in  spring 
Must    be    a    stem    straight-pointed    toward    a 

flower ; 

That  every  bud  must  bring  a  blossom-nest 
In  which  to  hatch  and  home  a  future  fruit. 


BERLIN  MOUNTAIN.  151 

Full  many  a  leaf  can  only  catch  the  shower 
And  quench  the  dry  limb's  thirst;  full  many 

a  bud 

Grow  bright  alone  as  might  a  short-lived  spark 
Aglow    to    show   some   source  of  kindled   fra 
grance  ; — 

Ay,  ay,  aglow  to  show  itself  a  part  and  partner 
Of  that  mysterious  worship  in  which  all 
The  worlds  are  joined,  the  while  they  hang  on 

high 

Like  golden  censers,  hidden  though  they  gleam, 
And   fill    with   sweetness   heaven's   dim   dome 
above  us. 

In  every  sphere,  beyond  what  merely  meets 
The  first  demand  of  need,  there  issues  forth 
A  constant  overflow.  'T  is  this  that  brings 
More  sunlight  than  the  eye  of  toil  exhausts, 
More  summer  rain  than  clears  and  cools  the  air 
Where  smoke  and  flame  the  world's  too  heated 

axles. 

'T  is  this  regales  the  hunger  of  fatigue 
By  foretastes  of  refreshment  never  failing, 
And  shows,  beyond  the  prisons  of  this  earth, 
Through   opening   gates,    the   free   expanse   of 

heaven. 
Without  this  overflow,  no  wish  could  play, 


152     MOUNTAINS  ABOUT  WILLIAMSTOWN. 

No  thought  could  dream,  no  fancy  slip  the  links 
Of  logic,  and  wing  off  with  childlike  faith 
And  poise  o'er  mysteries  too  deep  for  sight. 
Without  it,  not  one  poet  would  repeat 
His  empty  echoes  of  life's  humdrum  work, 
His  rhythmic  laughter  of  disburdened  thought. 
Without  it,  not  one  artist  would  essay 
To  mimic  Nature  when  it  molds  to  gems 
Its  melting  worthlessness,  or,  like  a  wizard, 
Waves    with    its    wand    to    welcome    bubbling 

froth 

And  turn  to  amber  that  which  aimed  for  air. 
Without  it,  ah,  without  it,  there  would  be 
No  life  of  life  more  grand  by  far  than  all 
That   worlds   can   outline   or  that   minds   con 
ceive, — • 

No  wings  to  lift  aloft  our  thrilling  souls 
And  bear  them  on,  unconscious  how  or  why, 
Far  past  all  limits  of  all  earth-moved  thought 
Until,  at  last,  they  seem  to  reach  the  verge 
Of  heaven's  infinity. 

Meantime,  confined 

Where  only  finite  form  can  hint  of  what 
Inspires  formation,  many  souls  there  are — 
Oh,    may    I    join   them! — who,    in    all   things 
earthly, 


BERLIN  MOUNTAIN.  153 

Behold  what  evermore  transfigures  earth. 

No  scene  can  greet  them  but  it  brings  to  sight 

Far  less  than  to  suggestion ;  not  a  tone 

Whose  harmony  springs  not  from  overtones ; 

And  not  a  partial  stir  but,  like  a  pulse, 

It  registers  what  heart-beat  moves  the  whole. 

So  let  this  valley  grow  its  flower  and  fruit. 
So  let  the  minds  that  fill  the  valley  fare 
On  food  they  find  in  book  and  business. 
Give  me  the  flowerless  leaf,  the  fruitless  branch, 
The  mountain  pushing  up  to  barrenness, 
The  scrub-oak  and  the  rock — and,  oh,  the  view! 
Away  with  work,  and  let  me,  free  from  care, 
Mount  on  and  up! — No  weak  distractions  now; 
No  wait  at  Flora's  Glen ;  no  word  to  hint 
Her  modest  welcome  and  her  wanton  wiles! 
They  seldom  lured  me  in  the  past,  and  here — 
Why,   here,   at  present,   look! — there  lifts  Bee 

Hill! 

Come,    serve    with    me,    my    day-long    moun 
taineer, 

Our  short  apprenticeship,  and  compass  this 
Before  the  longer  climb  that  waits  beyond; — 
Ay,  like  an  archer  when  he  tries  his  bow, 
Essay  this  littler  bend;  and,  by-and-by, 
Our  limbs  will  limber  for  the  larger  aim. 


154     MOUNTAINS  ABOUT  WILLIAMSTOWN . 

Now  tramp  we  up  the  last  vale's  long  ascent; 
Now,  on  the  narrow  ridge,  see  half  of  earth, 
And  more  than  half  of  heaven,  each  side  of 

us; 

And  here,  upon  the  peak,  at  last,  we  pierce 
The  core  where  all  sublimeness  finds  a  center. 
Not   all,    you   say? — Then   tell   me    where   on 

earth 

A  lesser  summit  taps  a  larger  view ; — 
See,  south,  the  Berkshires,  west  of  them,  the 

Catskills, 
Then,    northward,    up   the    far,    wide    Hudson 

valley, 

The  Adirondacks  and  the  great  Green  range, 
With,    here   and   there,    a  knoll   that   gives   a 

hint 

Of  highlands  past  the  north  Connecticut, 
But,  best  of  all,  close  by,  the  Housatonics, 
And,    walled   against   the   east,    this   Greylock 

group 

Heaped  near  like  models  to  reveal  in  full 
What  wealth  were  in  them  all,  if  clearly  seen. 
One  day  like  this  that  lifts  a  life  on  high 
Where  spirit  seems  to  breathe  its  native  air 
Is  better  than  to  dream  a  score  of  nights 
Where  sleep  is  tinkering  in  its  dark  garage 
The  tire  that  gains  mere  physical  repair. 


BERLIN  MOUNTAIN.  155 

And   why   should   one   descend?     Why  cannot 

now 

This  whirling  world  whisk  off  the  willing  spirit 
And  let  it  shoot  through  space,  and  go  and  go, 
And  never  come  again?     Ah,  why  should  fate 
Leave  thought  entangled  like  an  eagle  here 
Whose   wings  are   bound,   and   feet   can   only 

crawl 

So  slowly,  and,  when  one  so  longs  to  fly, 
So  painfully? — And  yet  there  sounds  a  bell 
From  out  the  valley.     Why  this  call  to  work? 
Why  this  reluctant  journey  down  the  hill? — 
One  scarcely  dare  look  backward  till,  at  last, 
The  autumn's  gold  and  crimson  in  the  aisle 
That  cleaves  its  glorious  arch  through  Torrey's 

woods 

Converts  rebellious  raving  to  remorse 
That,  even  for  an  hour,  one  could  forget 
What  beauty  waits  in  low  as  well  as  high — 
In  all  this  realm,  which  nature,  like  a  mother 
That   loves   her   child,    has   fashioned    for    his 

home. 

Now  back  and  down  again  to  book  and  duty ! 
But  who  are  these  we  meet? — Our  comrades? 

—Oh, 
Were  they  of  us? — Alas,  ye  narrow  souls, 


156     MOUNTAINS  ABOUT  WILLIAMSTOWN. 

Awake,  and  fly,  like  slaves  that  would  be  free! 
Like  those  not  made  for  soil  but  for  the  sky ! 
Bound  down  to  petty  tasks,  more  useless  ye 
Than  ships  loosed  never  from  their  anchorage, 
Nor  sailed  to  ports  for  which  they  have  been 

freighted. 

Oh,  think  ye  ends  that  souls  were  made  to  gain 
Were  ever  reached  by  one  who  never  breathed 
A  higher  air,  or  saw  a  higher  sight 
Than  those  on  which  contracted  brows  are  bent 
In  library  or  laboratory? — what? — 
Does  thought  grow  broader,  whittled  down  to 

point 

At  microscopic  nuclei  of  dust, 
As  if  the  world  were  by,  not  with  them,  built?-— 
As  if  the  game  of  true  success  were  played 
By  matching  parts  whose  wholes  are  curios? 
Nay,  nay!     Life's  greatest  gain  is  life  itself; 
And  life,  though  lived  in  matter,  is  not  of  it; 
Not  of  the  object  that  our  aims  pursue, 
Not  of  the  body  that  pursues  it,  not 
Of  all  the  world  of  which  itself  and  us 
Are  parts.     Nay,  all  things  that  the  eye  can 

see 

Are  but  vague  shadows  of  reality 
Cast  on  a  frail  environment  of  cloud, — 
But  illustrations  of  a  general  trend 


WEST  MOUNTAIN.  157 

Which  only  has  enduring  entity, 

And  is,  and  was,  and  always  must  be,  spirit. 

There  is  one  only  mission  fit  for  man, — 
To  be  a  spirit  ministering  to  spirit. 
What  fits  for  this  ? — A  breath  of  higher  sky, 
A  sight  of  higher  scenes,  at  times,  a  strife 
To  mount  by  means  impossible  as  yet. 
What  then? — Believe  me  that  the  spirit-air, 
Like  all  the  air  above  the  soil  we  tread, 
Takes  to  its  own  environment  of  light 
No  growth  to  burst  there  into  flower  and  fruit 
That  does  not  get  some  start,  and  root  itself 
Amid  this  lower  world's  deep,  alien  darkness, — 
No  spirit  uses  wings  in  heaven  that  never 
Has  learned  of  them,  or  longed  for  them,  on 
earth. 


WEST  MOUNTAIN. 

1VI  O  hands  of  human  art  could  be  the  first 

*  ^     To  draw  thy  contour's  broken  lines  against 

The  ended  glory  of  the  sunset  sky. 

No  thought  of  human  mind  could  ever  plan, 

Nor  power  uphold  them.     Nay,  they  must  have 

sprung 
To  shape  like  this  when  some  primeval  frost 


158     MOUNTAINS  ABOUT  WILLIAMSTOWN. 

Chilled,  caught,  and  crystallized  the  storm-swept 

waves 

Of  chaos  that,  arrested  in  their  rage, 
They  fitly  might  portray  the  power  beneath. 
Stay  there,  great  billows,  all  your  boulder-drops 
Held  harmless  where  they  hang;  and  all  the 

spray 
That  might  have  dashed  above  them  merely 

leaves 

Of  bush  and  forest,  held  to  equal  pause 
Save   where,    perchance,    their   fluttering,   now 

and  then, 

Reveals  a  feeling  that  they  once  were  free ; 
Stay  there,  suspended  in  the  sky!     But,  sure 
As  days  roll  up  the  sun,  an  hour  must  come 
When   blazing  blasts  again  shall   shake   these 

peaks, 

Shall  pile  them  higher,  level  them  to  plains, 
Or  melt  them  back  to  primal  nothingness. 
Meantime  their  mission  shall  be  what  it  is : 
To  teach  the  world,  not  rest,  but,  restlessness, — 
The  aspiration  and  the  aim  of  art 
That  will  not  bide  contented  till  the  law 
Of  thought  shall  supersede  the  law  of  things, 
And  that  which  in  the  midnight  of  this  world 
Is  but  a  dream  shall  be  fulfilled  in  days 
Where  there  is  no  more  matter,  only  mind, 


WEST  MOUNTAIN.  159 

And  beauty,  born  of  free  imagination, 
Shall  wait  but  on  the  sovereignty  of  spirit. 

How  oft  in  youth  I  gazed  upon  these  hights 
Uprising  to  refresh  a  faltering  faith 
With  wistful  wonder  and  inspiring  zest ! 
For  this  how  often  have  I  climbed  these  fields 
From  foot-hills  to  the  Snow-hole;  then,  reclined 
Against  the  western  slope,  looked  off  to  give 
A  god-speed  to  the  sun,  and  half  believed 
The  blue-tint  sky-sheet  held  to  light  against 
The  little  town  of  learning  that  I  loved 
Could  bear  away  with  photographic  art 
That  which  should  give  enlightenment  to  all 
The  western  land  through  which  it  should  be 
trailed. 

How  often,  with  a  single  friend,  at  times, — 
At  times  with  many, — I  have  lingered  there ; 
And  then,  as  if  the  very  air  breathed  in 
From  broader,  grander  spaces  could  inspire 
To    thoughts    of    broader    reach    and    grander 

import, 
It  seemed  that  there  was  naught  in  earth  or 

sky 

Or  shop  or  study — did  we  deign  descend 
To  this  more  common  world — that  was  not  all 


160     MOUNTAINS  ABOUT  WILLIAMSTOWN. 

Discussed  if  not  decided.     Nor  confined 

To  bounds  material  were  we.     While  the  wind 

Would  whistle  through  the  trees  and  round  the 

rocks, 
Our  shouts  would  join  them,  now,  perchance, 

intent 

To  tempt  the  lonely  echoes  to  applaud 
Our  strife  to  make  our  ungrown  voices  fit 
To  bear  the  burden  of  the  larger  thought 
For  which  the  world  beyond  our  youth  seemed 

waiting ; 

And    now,    perchance,    though    seldom    recog 
nized, 

Nor  if,  though  subtly  recognized,  confessed, 
Intent  to  gain  fore-echoes,  as  it  were, 
Of  that  which  should  be  college  approbation 
When  words  that  to  the  air  were  now  rehearsed 
Should  load  the  breath  that  carries  freight  to 

spirit, 

And,  borne  along  the  clogs  of  others'  pulses, 
Should  start  that  subtle  rhythm  in  the  heart 
That  proves  the  presence  and  completes  the 

work 
Of  what  impels  to  rhythmic  rhetoric. 

Then,    warned    by  coming    twilight   we  would 
turn, 


WEST  MOUNTAIN.  161 

And  dare  to  lose  the  path,  and  plunge  adown 

Where,  lured  by  rock  or  rill,  we  snapt  apart 

The  net-work  of  the  tangled  underbrush, 

As  if  to  seize  wild  prey  enmeshed  therein — 

Oh,  happy  days  of  youth!  when  empty  sport 

Of  mere  imagination — fancied  game — 

Could  fill  the  hunter's  pouch  to  overflowing! 

Ay,  how  much  better  than  the  days  of  age — 

Alas,  I  fear  it,  too,  of  modern  youth 

For  whom,  so  rich  in  matter,  poor  in  mind, 

We  manufacture  implements  of  play 

That  clip  at  fancies  till  they  all  fit  facts, 

Plane  joys  to  toys,  and  level  games  to  gain, 

Till  every  pleasure  palls  that  fails  to  pay 

In    scales   that    rate   life's   worth   by   what   it 

weighs 
When  all  the  spirit's  buoyancy  is  lost. 

How  often  with  no  friend  except  myself — 
And  he,  at  times,  no  friend — my  feet  have  trod 
These  woods,  the  while  my  soul  has  longed  to 

rise 

Successfully  as  field  and  cliff  and  tree 
To  hights  where  one  could  dwell  above  a  world 
Whose  common  life  appeared  but  all  too  com 
mon, 
Its  aims  too  low  for  love  to  seek  and  honor, 


162     MOUNTAINS  ABOUT  WILLIAMSTOWN. 

And  yet  a  world  in  which  my  own  self,  too, 
My  body,  spirit,  all,  bore  part  and  share. 

At  times,  these  moods  would  pass  like  shadows 

trailed 

Across  the  darkened  meadows  from  far  clouds 
That  swiftly  sail  the  sky;  at  times,  they  came 
To  stay  and  root  themselves  like  seeds  that  make 
The    brush    more    thorny    with    each    season's 

growth. 

And,  oh,  one  night  there  was — can  I  forget  it? 
Not  while  the  sky  above  and  earth  beneath 
And  all  within  my  consciousness  can  last — 
A  night — and  not  the  sole  one — when,  as  if 
My  trembling  human  body  were  possessed 
As  by  a  demon  of  insane  desire 
To  make  its  loneliness  a  fitting  frame 
For  the  deep  loneliness  of  moods  within, 
I    strolled,    at    midnight,    through    the    shade- 
veiled   elms, 

Across  the  western  rise,  and  down  the  hill. 
What  mattered  how  complained  the  creaking 

bridge, 

Or  bustling  brook,  disturbed  by  moon  and  me ; 
How  marshalled  into  rows  the  ghost-like  forms, 
White  mantled  in  the  hill-side  cemetery? — 
On,  on,  I  pressed  until,  through  haunted  aisles 


WEST  MOUNTAIN.  163 

Of  phantom-fashioned  trees  and  looming  mounds 
That  rose  like  mighty  tombs  of  giants  dead 
Whose    spirits   yet    seemed    round    me, — on    I 

pressed 

Until  I  reached  that  great  right  angle  where 
All  farms  and  all  things  fertile  lie  below 
And  only  barren  slopes  of  steril  rock 
And  trees  that  nature  struggles  to  disown 
Await  the  climber  who  would  still  move  on. 
And  then  I  paused,  and  then  I  looked  below, 
And  asked  what  could  be  there  for  me,  and  then 
I  looked  above  and  asked  what  could  be  there. 
Mistakes  of  others  and  my  own,  as  well, 
The  land's   financial   stress,   and  that   strange 

stress 

Of  human  fellowship  which  sometimes  makes 
A  fellow- worker,  from  his  very  zeal 
To  help  another,  elbow  him  aside, 
Had  seemed  to  force  me  to  a  precipice 
As  real  as  any  that  my  feet  could  find ; 
And  I  must  fight,  or  fall;  and  if  I  fought 
Must  fight  myself  and  fight  my  every  friend. 
Oh,  do  not  think  that  heaven  moves  all  alike! 
Some  minds  are  sighted  for  a  single  aim, 
And  right  for  others  may  be  wrong  for  them! 
Oh,  do  not  think  the  tempter,  when  he  comes, 
Proclaims  his  presence  through  acknowledged  ill ! 


1 64     MOUNTAINS  ABOUT  WILLIAMSTOWN. 

His  most  seducing  tones  may  leave  the  lips 

Of    friends,   or    those  who  best    may   pose   as 

friends ; 

His  direst  pitfall-paths  mount  up,  nor  hint 
What    crumbling    crags    their    garden    glories 

wreathe. 

You  deem  that,  at  the  crisis  of  his  life, 
It  was  a  devil  Jacob  wrestled  with  ?— 
Nay,  nay;  Hosea's  term  for  him  was  angel. 

What  but  my  own  good  angel  could  recall 

The  plans  of  others  and  the  hopes  of  self 

For  early,  easy,  individual  gain, 

Position,  influence,  all  that  most  men  wish? 

And  what  except  this  angel's  foe  was  it 

That  made  contend  with  these  a  force  conjured 

From  inward  consciousness  of  mind  and  body, 

With  all  the  doubts  that  shadowed  thought  in 

one, 

And  nerves  that  stirred  revulsion  in  the  other, 
As  if  to  make  my  spirit  fly  as  far 
From  fellow-spirits  as  those  mountain  hights 
Were  far  from  all  that  should  be  in  one's  home? 

The  darkest  night  brings  dawn.     You  ask  the 

end?  - 
What  if  the  purpose  that  my  soul  then  formed 


WEST  MOUNTAIN.  165 

Remain  still  far  too  sacred  to  reveal  ? 
What  if  I  failed  to  do  as  friends  had  hoped  ? 
What  if  I  lived  for  years  discredited  ?— 
God  knows  that  I  have  tried  to  live  my  life ; 
Nor  from  the  trophies  of  the  outside  world 
Have  often  sought  or  longed  for  recompense. 

Oh,  there  are  views  of  life  that  so  depend 

On  inward  entity  at  work  beneath 

The  whole  that    has     been,   or  that  can   be, 

shown 

In  what  men  merely  see  or  hear  or  clutch, 
That  each  and  all  seem  hollow  as  mere  husks. 
To-day  a  man  is  young,  to-morrow,  old ; 
To-day  in  health,  to-morrow  in  disease; 
To-day  enthroned,  to-morrow  in  his  grave; 
And  not  alone  to  man  these  changes  come. 
The  earth,  our  home,  that  so  enduring  seems, 
The  sun  and  stars  that  light  it  from  above 
Belong  but  to  a  camp,  set  up  to-day, 
And,  on  the  morrow,  fell  'd  and  flung  aside. 

What  then  remains  for  life? — If  one  have  aimed 
For  outward  profit,  nothing.     If  his  thought 
Have  always,   through   the  outer,   sought  the 

inner, 
Then,  not  alone,  the  stars  that  shine  on  high 


1 66     MOUNTAINS  ABOUT  WILLIAMSTOWN. 

May  all  prove  beacons,  guiding  on  and  on 

To  havens  holding  glories  infinite, 

But  each  frail  flower  that  blooms  for  but  an 

hour 

May  store  in  memory  an  ideal  of  beauty, 
A   sense   of  sweetness,   that   shall  never  leave 

him. 


How  vain  to  let  affections  all  go  forth 
To  things  material,  hard  and  heavy  foes, 
Whose  mission  is  to  fall  at  once  and  crush, 
Or,  through  long  labor,  wear  our  spirits  out ! 
How  much  more  wise,   behind  the  shape,   to 

seek 

The  substance,  and,  in  sympathy  with  it, 
Learn  of  the  life  that  never  was  created 
But  all  things  were  created  to  reveal! 
Ah,  he  who  learns  of  this,  and  comes  to  live 
In  close  communion  with  it,  finds,  at  times, 
When  Nature  whom  he  loves  has  laid  aside 
Her  outer  guise  and  clasps  him  to  her  heart, 
That  there  are  mysteries,  not  vague  but  clear, 
Not  formless  but  concrete,  which,  it  must  be, 
That  those  alone  can  know,  or  have  a  right 
To  know,  who  always,  like  a  faithful  spouse, 
Have  kept  their  spirits  to  the  spirit  true. 


WEST  MOUNTAIN.  167 

And   when   these   mounts,   like  mighty  sheets 

above 

Some  slumbering  giant  soon  to  wake  and  walk, 
Fall  back  to  formlessness  from  whence  they  came, 
What  wisdom  shall  be  proved  the  choice  of  him 
Whose  eyes,  in  mercy  shielded  from  the  blaze 
On  which  the  soul  alone  can  look  and  live, 
Did  not  mistake  mere  grossness  in  the  form 
For  the  true  greatness  of  the  inward  force ; 
Whose  mind  too  slightly  taught,  as  yet,  perhaps, 
To  read,  beneath  the  picture,  all  the  text, 
Has  yet  surmised  its  meaning  by  that  faith 
Which,  though  its  guide  be  instinct,  dares  to 

think, 

And,  though  it  bow  to  greet  the  symbol,  yet 
Lets  not  its  magic  cast  a  spell  on  sense! 
To  him  the  world  seems  but  a  transient  school  ; 
The  universe,  a  university; 

The  blue  that  homes  the  sunlight  and  the  stars, 
A  dome  above  a  vast  museum  built 
With  glens  for  alcoves,  plains  for  galleries, 
And    mounts    for   stairways,    where    he   works 

and  waits 

Till  comes  the  day  he  takes  his  last  degree, 
And  then  goes  forth,  and  leaves  these  all  be 
hind, 
Yet,  in  a  true  sense,  holds  them  his  forever. 


PARALLELS  AND    PARABLES 


169 


THE  LAST  HOME-GATHERING. 

HTHE  age-worn  dame  her  pale  hand  laid 

On  the  arm   of  her  trembling   age-worn 

maid. 

"We  both  are  white  enough  and  lean 
For  ghosts  to  go  with  and  be  seen. 
And  I  have  dreamt  they  come  to-day ; 
Thanksgiving  Day  they  come,  I  say! 
So  get  the  table  set, "  she  cried. 
"I  will,"  her  wondering  maid  replied. 

Off  through  the  wild  November  sky, 
A  storm,  was  it,  that  there  drew  nigh? 
Or  was  it  a  pall-car  of  the  dead 
With  crape-like  curtains  round  it  spread? 
And  oh,  was  a  death-doom  ever  due 
But  lives  that  were  sunny  before  it  flew? 
Heigh-ho,  heigh-ho,  as  the  thing  came  on, 
To  have  seen  the  hurry  and  scurry,  anon ! 
Heigh-ho,  heigh-ho,  to  have  seen  the  way 
The  breezes  before  it  began  to  play ! — 
It  came  like  a  boy  who  whistles  first 
To  warn  of  his  form  that  shall  on  us  burst, 
As  if  nature  feared  to  jar  the  heart 
By  joys  too  suddenly  made  to  start. 
171 


172    PARALLELS  AND  PARABLES. 

It  came  like  the  peck  on  the  blind  by  a  bird 

That  taps  for  help  when  a  hawk  is  heard ; 

It  came  like  the  shot  of  the  pickets  of  rain 

When  sunshine  flies  from  a  window-pane. 

But  who  of  us  ever  can  judge  the  way 

A  storm  will  strike  from  its  first  felt  spray  ? 

The  walkers  without  soon  found  in  the  sleet 

A  net  that  was  tripping  their  floundering  feet, 

A  veil  that  was  falling  as  light  as  lace 

But  snapped  as  it  hit  each  stinging  face, 

Then  shattered  to  scatter  the  street  below 

With  hail-shot  followed  by  smoke  of  snow. 

The  snow,  it  followed  and  lay  like  soot 

Swept  down  from  realms  its  white  could  pollute. 

Or  was  it,  instead,  a  pure  rug  spread 

For  the  feet  that  came  in  that  car  of  the  dead? 

The  car  moved  on  with  threatening  shade 

To  the  home  of  the  age -worn  dame  and  maid. 

Meantime,  the  table,  it  had  to  be  spread. 

"Get  ready,  get  ready!"  the  white  dame  said. 

"Get  ready  what? — We  mortals  eat. 

But  think  you  that  ghosts  deem  eating  a  treat?— 

No  hollow  within  have  they  to  fill, 

No  blood  to  flow,  no  nerve  to  thrill, 

But  get  you  flowers,  all  fresh  and  sweet, 

A  vase  of  flowers  each  guest  to  greet. 


THE  LAST  HOME-GATHERING.         173 

Of  all  things  leaving  the  world  at  death, 
There  is  nothing  of  which  we  know  but  breath. 
And  what  but  fragrance  can  they  bear 
The  whole  of  whose  bodies  are  merely  air? " 
So  out  of  the  hot-house  flowers  were  brought, 
And  round  the  table  wreaths  were  wrought, 
And  a  full  vase  rose  at  each  one's  place, 
Awaiting  anon  a  ghostly  face. 
Beneath  them  all  a  pure  white  spread 
Made  whiter  the  light  by  each  candle  shed, 
Each  candle  glittering,  right  or  left, 
Like  a  fire-fly  caught  in  a  June-night  theft. 
For  a  while,  the  flowers  that  warmed  the  room 
Kept  back  the  chill  of  the  outer  gloom. 
For  a  while,  the  symbols  of  life  and  health 
Had  brought  to  that  winter  the  summer's  wealth. 
For  a  while,  those  watchers  had  waived  the  truth 
And  brought  their  old  age  back  to  youth. 

Then  the  door,  it  shook  with  a  gust  of  the  blast. 
The  ghostly  guests  were  there  at  last. 
"Come  in,  come  in!"  with  eyes  aflame, 
"Come  in,  come  in!"  cried  the  age-worn  dame. 

"Ah,  Bessie,  my  child,  it  is  you!  It  is  you!— 
Still  always  the  first,  whatever  you  do? 
How  oft,  like  the  dear,  sweet  elf  of  a  dream, 


174          PARALLELS  AND  PARABLES. 

Just  mantling  in  light  at  the  dawn's  first  gleam, 

I  have  watched  your  form  come  shining  through 

A  halo  of  rays  less  bright  than  you. 

And  when,  with  the  others,  you  left  for  school 

Your  feet  went  always  first,  as  a  rule. 

Your  voice  came  first,  when  I  heard  their  play, 

And  your  voice  first  when  they  knelt  to  pray. 

Of  all  our  children  you  first  were  wed;. 

And,  alas,  you  too  were  the  first  with  the  dead. 

Oh,  lead  you  still  amid  spirits  above? 

If  so,  let  me  follow  you  there,  my  love; 

For  the  one  that  led  to  the  best  things  here 

Must  be  some  spirit  that  heaven  holds  dear. 

"And  Benny,  my  boy  with  the  golden  hair, 
And  a  faith  so  sure  that  each  day  would  be  fair ! 
I  think  it  was  never  a  part  of  God's  plan 
That  you  should  grow  from  a  boy  to  a  man. 
So  gentle,  so  yielding,  your  face  all  aglow 
To  follow  each  friend,  and  never  say  '  No, ' 
The  skies  too  cloudless  dawned  for  you, 
Too  sunny  and  warm — oh,  nothing  grew! 
Your  golden  fields  that  we  fondly  saw 
Were  filled  with  a  grainless  crop  of  straw. 
Ah,  child  of  my  heart,  to  think  that  the  grave 
Was  the  one  thing  left  your  honor  to  save ! 
And  yet,  a  boy  that  so  could  love, — • 


THE  LAST  HOME-GATHERING.         175 

Has  a  heart  like  yours  no  hold  above? 
If  one's  own  spirit  tempt  not  astray, 
But  only  the  senses  it  fails  to  sway, 
Where  worth  is  judged  by  spirit,  I  dream 
That  some  prove  better  than  here  they  seem.— 
Besides,  besides,  with  Bessie  you  stand — 
Oh  God,  I  thank  thee!     She  holds  your  hand. 

"Here  too  comes  Mary,  you  sweetest  of  all 
That  earth  ever  steeped  in  a  brine  of  gall. 
By  your  lover  deceived,  by  many  belied, 
And  long  in  suffering  ere  you  died, — • 
Oh,  what  is  the  meaning  of  life  like  yours? 
Does  heaven  mistake  the  traits  that  it  cures?  . 
Or  must  the  mood  of  a  soul  when  trained 
Be  gauged  by  the  discipline  each  has  gained? 
And  is  discipline  never  in  reach  of  those 
Whose  natures  have  never  been  crushed  by  woes? 
Do  the  cheeriest  need  the  weariest  strife, 
Ere  broken  to  bear  what  blesses  our  life? 
Is  the  test  of  true  metal  the  blow  and  the  scrape 
And  the  time  that  it  takes  to  bend  it  in  shape? 
If  so,  perhaps,  it  is  well  that  the  best 
Are  those  to  whom  earth  brings  the  least  of  rest. 

"And  John,  my  eldest! — Are  you  too  dead? — 
No,  no;  I  see — You  are  shaking  your  head; 


176    PARALLELS  AND  PARABLES. 

And  yet  you  have  sent  your  spirit, — my  stay, 
As  of  old,  when  your  father  was  taken  away. 
Of  all  our  children,  you  promised  the  least, 
Yet  your  rising  above  them  has  not  yet  ceased. 
Your  face  was  not  fair,  your  mind  not  keen, 
But    you    had    what    was   better, — a    strength 

unseen. 

When  all  of  our  household  shook  at  the  blast, 
Like  a  gnarled  knit  oak,  you  still  stood  fast. 
No  wonder  the  boy  that  so  could  stand 
Is  now  a  stay  of  our  whole  broad  land! 
Ah  yes,  though  dense  the  depths  around, 
No  high-aimed  spirit  to  them  is  bound; 
No  heaven-aimed  spirit  abides  in  a  grave; 
But  surely  as  air  when  plunged  in  a  wave, 
Whatever  may  try  to  hinder  or  stop, 
There  comes  a  time  when  it  comes  to  the  top. 

"And  Martha, — you  always  were  planning  for 

woe, 

Yet  whose  whole  life  more  joy  could  show? 
In  man  as  in  nature,  the  outward  jar 
Less  brings  our  trouble  than  what  we  are. 
The  wind  may  but  tickle  the  grass  or  the  tree 
That  lashes  to  fury  the  wave  of  the  sea. 
Your  mood  was  a  sea;  but  oh,  how  bright 
It  glimmered  to  image  the  whole  world's  light ! 


THE  LAST  HOME-GATHERING.         177 

Your  husband  a  model,  your  children  all  fair, 

Your  days  your  own,  so  empty  of  care, — 

A  life  to  which  sorrow  mostly  came 

Like  a  stranger  of  whom  one  hears   but   the 

name, — 

Ah,  well,  it  was  kind  of  your  spirit  to  stray 
From  your  own  bright  home  to  see  me  to-day! 

"  And  others  too  coming. — Oh  how  they  crowd ! — 
Their  father  of  whom  we  were  all  so  proud, 
My  half,  not  only,  the  staff  of  my  strife, 
Whose  loss  could  but  make  me  a  cripple  for  life ; 
And  all  the  dear  children  of  Martha  and  John,— 
Our  children  that  make  our  houses  anon 
Weird  mirrors  in  which,  with  scarcely  a  blur, 
Our  own  lost  lives  we  see  as  we  were. 
Come  in,  come  in,  you  are  welcome,  my  dears! 
Come  in,  come  in,  and  forget  the  years! 
Sit  down,  sit  down!     Thank  God  for  the  past 
And  life  to  be  ours  long  as  memories  last." 

She  rose  to  greet  them,  but,  fainting,  fell — 

Ah  no ;  it  was  no  mere  fainting  spell ! 

Her  maid  affrighted  clutcht  the  dame's  form, 

And  wept,  and  called,  and  heard  but  the  storm. 

A  mighty  blast  the  door  flew  back. 

The  lights  were  out;  the  room  was  black. 


178    PARALLELS  AND  PARABLES. 

Her  maid  affrighted  heard  no  more. 
She  knelt  in  darkness  on  the  floor. 

And  when  the  neighbors  came  at  dawn, 
The  table  stood,  the  guests  were  gone. 
And,  side  by  side,  at  rest  they  laid 
The  age-worn  mistress  and  her  maid. 


MIDNIGHT  IN  A  CITY  PARK. 

O  LEEP  on,  O  World,  that  I  no  more  shall  see, 
^  Sleep  on,  nor  be  disturbed  by  dreams  of  me. 
What  cares  this  oak  for  one  leaf  downward  tost, 
Or  what  all  earth  that  one  like  me  is  lost  ? 

The  soul  I  love,  the  comrades  of  my  strife, 
All,  all  forsake  me.     What  remains  for  life? 
Bend  over  me,  ye  grim  boughs  of  the  park, 
And  fold  me  in  the  coffin  of  the  dark. 

Hung  high  above  this  crape-like  dusk  of  night, 
The  star-lights  flicker,  and,  with  star-like  light, 
The  street-lamps  ranged  in  order  round  me  glow. 
What  victor's  pall  was  ever  lighted  so? 

Here  let  me  end  my  life.  In  death's  long  sleep 
No  more  shall  weary  eyes  close  but  to  weep, 


MIDNIGHT  IN  A  CITY  PARK.          179 

Nor  thoughts  keep  mining  from  the  darkened 

brain 
Fit  fuel  for  the  morrow's  burning  pain. 

I  might  have  turned  and  crushed  their  power  for 

wrong ; 
Have  made  them  mourn  for  what  they  met  with 

song; 

I  might  have  spoken  out  and  proved  the  lie, 
But  meek,  considerate,  loyal,  lo  I  die. 

How  many  die,  or  all  they  live  for  lose 
Because  of  weapons  honor  cannot  use! 
What  hopes  men  bury  that  the  ghosts  which  rise 
May  lead  the  dance  of  others  toward  the  skies ! 

If  but  the  truth  of  love  a  soul  should  tell 
What  hearts  might  break,  what  homes  become 

a  hell! 

If  touched  by  ardor  of  one's  brightest  aims, 
How  black  his  earth  might  scorch  beside   the 

flames ! 

There,  in  that  mansion,  where  the  light  burns 

late, 

A  wife  will  smile  to  greet  her  drunkard  -mate ; 
But,  in  her  spirit,  long  for  his  fond  eye 
Who  waits  for  her  until  that  mate  shall  die. 


l8o    PARALLELS  AND  PARABLES. 

Where,  like  a  stable's,  that  low  roof  is  hung, 
Stern   parents   yoked   and   broke   their   loving 

young; 

But  love,  if  driven,  is  only  driven  away: 
Thank  God  that  lips  tell  not  what  hate  might 

say. 

Of  yonder  home  a  child  was  once  the  pride, 
But  floods  of  vileness  whelmed  her  in  their  tide. 
Diseased,  disfigured,  source  of  grief  and  shame, 
She  dwells  there  still,  nor  hears  one  word  of 
blame. 

And  here  where    mourners  watch  a  form  so 

white 

It  scarcely  veils  the  spirit's  coming  light, 
Their  aching  smiles  travest  with  joy-like  arts 
The  throes  of  grief  that  rack  their  trembling 

hearts. 

Who  lives  not  conscious  of  some  inward  thought 
Which    out    to   outward    life    should    not    be 

brought? 

How  many  a  soul  must  purchase  all  its  joy 
With  coin  one  test  of  ours  could  prove  alloy ! 

Earth  owes  its  faith  to  men  who  will  not  share 
Distrust  with  him  who  now  has  none  to  bear. 


MIDNIGHT  IN  A  CITY  PARK.          181 

No  sighs  of  theirs  give  vent  to  inward  strife, 
Lest  weak  confession  give  it  voice  and  life. 

When  comes  a  loss  of  fortune,  honor,  sway, 
When    threatens    death  that  hope    alone  can 

stay, 
When    senile   states   presume   they   still   have 

youth, — 
Oh,  what  could  curse  men  worse  than  words  of 

truth? 

The  clerk,  hard  pressed,  who  holds  the  coffer's 

key, 

The  scribe  in  debt  who  writes  that  none  can  see, 
The  maid  in  want  who  fingers  gem  and  dress, — 
We  trust  them  all  for  thoughts  that  all  repress. 

The  forests  flourish  and  the  sweet  flowers  blow 
Because  of  soil  that  hides  foul  roots  below; 
And  all  fair  fruits  of  human  life  are  grown 
Above  dark  moods  and  motives  never  shown. 

Ah,  were  they  shown,  did  man  not  rule  himself, 
The  world  were  whelmed  in  murder,  vice,  and 

pelf; 

As  vainly  watchmen  trod  this  dreamlike  mist 
As  might  some  weird,  un waked  somnambulist. 


182    PARALLELS  AND  PARABLES. 

To  wisdom's  eyes  all  paths  in  life  reveal 
Each  man  a  sentinel  of  all  men's  weal, 
And  often  all  their  safety  he  must  win 
By  first  suppressing  his  first  wish  within. 

Within  himself  when  fierce  the  fight  is  waged, 
Oh,  who  can  aid  the  purpose  thus  engaged! 
The  soul,  unheard,  in  darkness  and  alone, 
Can  never  share  a  contest  all  its  own. 

None  from  another's  practice  gains  in  skill, 
Or  grows  in  power  of  feeling,  thought,  or  will; 
None  with  another  goes  to  God  in  dreams 
To   seek   the   strength   that   his   lost   strength 
redeems. 

What  coward  he,  then,  when  the  crisis  nears 
Who  cries  for  comrades,  nor  dare  face  his  fears! 
No  comrade's  arm  or  mail  can  ever  screen 
The  coming  conqueror  in  that  strife  unseen. 

All  hail,  dark  Night,  and  darker  Loneliness! 
What  whim  was  this  that  brought  my  wrong 

distress? 
In  life  or  death,  knights  crowned  at  heaven's 

high  throne, 
Pass  up  through  paths  where  each  must  move 

alone. 


IDEALS  THAT  WERE.  183 

Because,    thus    moving,    many    a   brave    soul 

bears 

What  none  who  else  might  be  imperilled  shares, 
I  hear  the  watchman's  call,  the  midnight  bell, 
The  city  sleeps  in  peace,  and  all  is  well. 


IDEALS  THAT  WERE. 

T  HAD  longed  for  months  to  meet  him ; 
*     And  then  we  sat,  as  of  old, 
When  our  days  of  life  were  dawning, 

With  skies  all  red  and  gold. 
But  calmed  was  the  thrill  of  his  accent, 

And  chilled  the  touch  of  his  hand ; 
And  under  his  lifted  eyelid  . 

No  dear  soul  seemed  to  stand. 

We  talked  of  business  ventures, 

Of  losses,  and  gains  ahead, 
Of  classmates, — a  few  successful, 

And  some  who  had  failed,  or  were  dead. 
But  it  all  appeared  like  a  story 

One  read  in  a  book  long  ago, 
And  recalls  the  reading  to  wonder 

How  time  could  be  wasted  so. 


1 84    PARALLELS  AND  PARABLES. 

We  talked  about  women  and  marriage 

And  children,  and  how  they  grow, 
That  this  one  or  that  gives  promise, 

And  others  bring  doubt,  you  know. 
But  our  talk  was  the  talk  of  strangers; 

In  touch  with  each  other,  thought  I, 
No  more  than  a  stone  with  a  seraph 

Asail  in  a  cloud  on  high. 


And  then,  at  last,  we  had  parted; 

Nor  had  ventured  one  hint,  forsooth, 
Of  the  light  that  gave  heaven  its  glory, 

And  earth  its  worth,  in  our  youth. 
He  had  wrought  for  wealth,  I  had  married 

We  had  both  earned  board  and  bed ; 
But  for  what  had  we  made  a  living 

When  all  we  had  lived  for  was  dead? 


THE  SAILOR'S  CHOICE. 

TT  E  came  to  the  deck  at  the  call  of  the  crew: 
*•  *•     And  had  brought  his  violin; 
So  we  hushed,  as  we  all  were  wont  to  do, 
And  waited  for  him  to  begin. 


THE  SAILOR'S  CHOICE.  185 

A  sailor-lad  was  he,  rough  in  his  mien, 
But  the  look  on  his  face,  as  he  laid 

His  ear  to  the  strings,  I  would  rather  have  seen 
Than  have  heard  any  tune  ever  played. 

He  stood  like  a  picture  painted  in  space, 

And  paused  ere  the  bow  he  drew ; 
And  then,  that  wonderful  look  on  his  face, 

How  deathly  pale  it  grew! 

"I  am  waiting  the  music  the  same  as  you," 

He  said  in  a  soft  low  voice ; 
"But  between  what  we  would  and  we  would  not  do 

We  must  make,  at  times,  a  choice." 

He  lowered  the  bow  with  a  sad  sweet  smile, 

"I  think  that  the  only  pride 
That  I  ever  feel,"  he  said,  "is  while 

I  am  playing  with  you  at  my  side. 

"Yet  I  never  seem  playing  for  you  alone, 

For  joining  the  voice  of  your  call 
Comes  a  voice  more  stern  than  a  mortal's  tone, 

And  it  calls  for  my  life,  my  all. 

"It  calls  for  my  life.     It  draws  my  soul 

Far  out  of  me,  while  I  play, 
Till  my  body,  deprived  of  my  own  control, 

Seems  only  a  demon's  prey. 


1 86    PARALLELS  AND  PARABLES. 

"He  tells  me  then,  with  a  frame  bereft 

Of  power  to  will  or  to  think, 
That  for  ills  like  mine  no  cure  is  left 

But  the  kind  that  comes  from  drink. 

"You  know  my  story, — too  black  to  see, 

Too  foul  to  paint  or  to  tell, 
All  proofs  or  threats  are  lost  on  me ; 

I  rave  as  if  earth  were  hell. 

"Last  night  my  blood-stained  hands  were  torn 
From  the  throat  of  my  own  best  friend ; 

And  now,  by  the  Lord,  my  soul  hath  sworn 
That  a  life  like  that  shall  end. 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  that  brings  the  foe 

That  works  this  wrong  within. 
It  is  only  music  that  maddens  me  so, — 

The  music  of  this  violin. 

"How  once  I  scrimped  with  all  I  could  earn 

Till  it  I ,  at  last,  possest ; 
And  how,  when  absent,  my  arms  will  yearn 

To  feel  it  again  at  my  breast ! 

"I  tell  it  my  pains,  and  its  echoes  come  back 
So  sweet  I  thank  God  they  are  there. 

I  tell  it  my  joys,  and  the  thrills  that  they  lack 
My  soul  breathes  in  with  the  air. 


THE  SAILOR'S  CHOICE.  187 

"And  now,  no  matter  what  fate  I  fear, 

No  matter  what  ship  I  am  in, 
What  comrade  has  left  me,  a  friend  is  near, 

While  by  me  is  this  violin. 

"A  friend!      Oh,  who  but  a  fool  would  cling 
To  a  friend  that  can  merely  betray! 

And  yet  to  think  so  dear  a  thing 
Could  have  led  my  spirit  astray!  " 

He   spoke,   and    looked    at    it,    then,    on    his 
knee, 

He  broke  it  like  one  who  raves. 
The  crew,  to  rescue  it,  sprang,  but  he 

Had  hurled  it  off  to  the  waves. 


In  the  trough  of  the  sea  a  moment  it  lay, 

And  then  came  leaping  back, 
Like  a  living  foe,  but  was  caught  away 

And  lost  in  the  vessel's  track. 

"I  cared  for  it  more  than  I  think  you  knew" 

He  said,  with  a  sob  in  his  voice, 
"But  between  what  we  would  and  we  would 
not  do, 

We  must  make,  at  times,  a  choice." 


1 88          PARALLELS  AND  PARABLES. 
AT  THE  PARTING  OF  THE  WAYS. 

IPvAY  dawns,  and  just  before  my  eye 
*•**     Two  pathways  fork  the  valley. 
One  turns  to  where  late  dreamers  lie, 

And  one  where  soldiers  rally. 
One  slips  by  easy  stages  down ; 

One  climbs  hights  wild  and  steril. 
One  ends  in  luxuries  of  the  town ; 

And  one  in  pain  and  peril. 

Which  make  I  mine? — Yon  sluggard  dreams 

His  music  of  sweet  slumber 
To  drum-beats  of  invading  schemes 

Whose  feet  no  man  can  number. 
Despoiling  good,  enriching  ill, 

These  work  where  none  suspect  them, 
And  make  mere  slaves  of  thought  and  will 

That  wake  not  to  detect  them. 

Which  make  I  mine? — On  yonder  hight 

Full  oft,  all  ease  denying, 
One's  only  gain  is  conscious  right, 

One's  rest  comes  but  from  dying. 
But  once  a  prince  here  died  to  give 

His  own  good  spirit  to  us ; 
And  good  for  which  we,  too,  would  live 

May  work  less  in  than  through  us. 


THE  RELIGION  OF  RESCUE.          189 

Oh,  who  would  welcome  not  a  strife 

Where  worth  wins  all  its  glory? 
Nor  waive  the  r61es  of  mortal  life 

For  an  immortal  story? 
The   bugle  calls  the  hill  to  storm. 

My  body  thrills ! — I  use  it 
As  due  a  spirit's  uniform 

Used  best  by  those  who  lose  it. 


THE  RELIGION  OF  RESCUE. 

TTHE  watch  of  the  ship,  "Lord  Gough,"  called 
out 

Through  the  hurricane's  howl,  "A  wreck!" 
No  shriek  of  the  wind  could  have  voiced  that  shout . 

It  brought  all  hands  to  the  deck. 

' '  No  use  in  letting  their  signal  fly 
At  half-mast" — muttered  the  mate; 

"For  heaven  alone,  in  a  sea  so  high, 
Could  save  them  now  from  their  fate." 

' '  That  heaven  be  ours ! "  cried  the  captain  brave ; 

"Ay,  rate  me  worse  than  a  whelp, 
If,  cowed  by  lashes  of  wind  or  of  wave, 

I  dare  not  row  to  their  help ! " 


I  go    PARALLELS  AND  PARABLES. 

Yet  who  of  his  crew  would  volunteer? — 
Who  risk  their  lives  in  the  yawl  ? — 

He  looked  where  he  thought  that  a  few  might 

appear, 
And  found  he  could  choose  from  all. 

But   wait! — On    the   mast   of  the   floundering 
ship 

The  flag  no  more  could  be  seen. 
The  ropes  hung  loose  that  his  crew  let  slip ; 

For  what  could  the  lowered  flag  mean? 

Oh,  could  it  have  been  but  a  false  alarm? — 
They  all  of  them  held  their  breath. 

Could  there  be  no  need  of  an  outstretched  arm, 
Or  of  rowing  that  race  with  death  ? 

The  captain  probed  with  his  eye-glass  then ; 

"Nay,  water-logged  do  they  lie; 
And,  flying  a  flag  or  no  flag,  men, 

We  rescue  them  now,  or  they  die." 

He  spoke,  and  his  words,  they  rang  like  knell 

On  the  drum  of  the  outward  ear ; 
But  when  on  the  inward  soul  they  fell 

Not  a  tremor  they  woke  of  fear. 


THE  RELIGION  OF  RESCUE.  191 

Then  soon,  as  a  coffin  falls  to  a  grave, 

The  yawl  sank  down,  but  alack! 
Like  fingers  white  the  crests  of  the  wave 

Were  clutching  and  flinging  it  back. 

Then,   whirled,    as    it   were,    in    a    drunkard's 
dance, 

It  staggered,  anon,  and  lunged, 
Then,  tilted  aside,  like  a  hostile  lance, 

At  the  hull  of  the  wreck  it  plunged. 

Three  times,  in  vain,  that  helpless  yawl 
Toward  the  deck  of  the  wreck  was  tost. 

Three  times  the  wrecked,    as   it    back   would 

fall, 
Looked  down  with  the  look  of  the  lost. 

Then  shouts  came  snapping  like  whips  the  blast. 

The  yawl  to  the  boom  had  clung ; 
And,  one  by  one,  from  the  wreck,  at  last, 

Black  forms  like  bales  were  flung. 

The  last  that  leapt  from  the  lone-left  deck 
And  called  that  the  work  was  done, 

Gave  "Cleopatra"  as  name  of  the  wreck, 
And  the  captain  as  "Pendleton. " 


192    PARALLELS  AND  PARABLES. 

"If  you  be  the  captain, "  greeted  him  then, 
"In  God's  name,  tell  us,  man,  why 

You  lowered  your  flag,  as  we  hove  to  you,  when 
You  knew  that  you  all  would  die?" 

' '  We  lowered  it  because  our  yawls  were  lost. 

We  could  never  have  rowed  to  you ; 
And  we  feared  that  for  you  to  come  would  cost 

Far  more  than  to  us  was  due." 

Then  a  low  voice  muttered,  "When  men  would 
find 

Such  a  man  as  a  man  should  be, — 
A  man  that  dares  to  die  for  his  kind, 

Then  let  them  look  to  the  sea. 

"Whatever  your  churches  or  priests  may  claim, 

When  making  their  worldly  rolls, 
Those  made  by  God  for  heaven  will  name 

The  men  that  have  Christlike  souls." 


AFTER  THE  LYNCHING. 

"\17AIT,  wait!  I  beg  you  wait!"  I  heard. 

*  ™       "I  know  you,  yes," — and  at  the  word, 
My  arm  was  clutched;   and,  standing  still, 
I  waited  there  against  my  will. 


AFTER  THE  LYNCHING.  193 

Amid  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
Two  star-like  eyes,  a  gown-cloud  white, 
And,  just  above,  like  phantom  rays, 
Gray,  bony  fingers  met  my  gaze. 

What  skeleton  had  sought  my  side? — 
"In  God's  name  who  are  you?"  I  cried; 
And,  wind-like  came  a  ghostly  hiss, 
"In  God's  name,  let  me  tell  you  this. 

' '  Someone  did  something  wrong, — a  man. 
Some  thought  his  color  dark.     He  ran. 
We  heard  a  tread,  a  hoot,  a  song. 
What  of  it? — We  had  done  no  wrong! 

"We  never  dreamed  of  their  attack, 
For  we,  we  were  not  very  black; 
And  should  we  flee,  someone  might  say 
That  we  were  guilty — better  stay! 

"But  they — O  God,  that  hearts  and  minds 
Should  rave  like  brutes  that  color  blinds, 
Should  feel  no  pity,  weigh  no  proof, 
But  vaunt  the  rule  of  horn  and  hoof! 

"They  dragged  my  father  from  his  bed. 
They  stripped  and  whipped,  and  burned  him  dead. 
My  mother,  she  bewailed  his  death. 
They  choked  and  wrung  from  her  her  breath. 
13 


194    PARALLELS  AND  PARABLES. 

"I  ran,  they  followed.     Oh,  the  slough, 
The  brush,  the  briar  I  stumbled  through! 
And  each  time  that  I  rose,  I  said : 
'My  God,  why  was  I  not  born  dead?' 

"Oh,  why  should  He  have  made  me  so 
That  half  the  world  must  hound  me?   Oh, 
Why  curse  the  blackness  of  my  skin, 
And  not  their  souls  all  black  within? 

"Were  all  heaven's  whiter,  brighter  fires 
Burned  out  before  it  made  my  sires? 
Ay,  was  there  nothing  left  but  soot 
For  men  to  trample  underfoot?'" 

"Too  sad  your  lot,"  I  sighed,  "my  child. 
I  wonder  not  your  words  are  wild ; 
But  nay;  not  all  men  hound  your  race, 
Or  deem  it  fills  a  useless  place. 

"No  place  in  life  but  fills  a  need. 
Who  tills  the  soil,  he  starts  the  seed; 
And  on  his  kind  of  toil  below 
Depends  the  kind  of  fruits  that  grow." 

"That  grow!"  she  moaned;  "they  never  will, 
On  sprouts  that  men  so  tramp  and  kill. 
God  grant  they  never  live  to  see 
The  wilderness  their  world  will  be." 


AFTER  THE  LYNCHING.  195 

"God  grant  it,  child,"  I  said,  and  thought 
How  apt  the  message  was  she  brought. 
Her  people  might  seem  injured  worse, 
But  mine  had  borne  the  deeper  curse. 

No  pride  in  man  can  thrill  the  mind 
That  treats,  like  soulless  brutes,  its  kind; 
No  heavenly  father  seems  to  cheer 
Those  who  see  not  his  children  here. 

The  only  joy  that  love  can  know 
Dwells  in  our  own  hearts  when  aglow. 
The  only  hope  that  faith  can  feel 
Our  spirits  in  themselves  reveal. 

"Hark,  hark!"  she  cried,  and  through  the  dark, 
As  if  the  wind  had  whirled  a  spark — 
Oh,  would  it  kindle  soon  a  fire? — 
I  saw  her  eyes  flash  past  the  briar. 

Then  I,  too,  heard  those  coming  feet 
And  groans  as  of  a  wounded  street. 
Then  I,  too,  ran  with  trampings  loud, 
And  far  from  her  I  led  that  crowd. 

I  circled  round  it,  came  behind; 
And  then  I  cried,  "Oh,  fools  and  blind! 
Who,  who  that  once  brute-force  enthrone 
O'er  others'  rights  can  save  their  own?  " 


196          PARALLELS  AND  PARABLES. 
RIGHTING  A  WRONG. 

YOU  think  you  will  go  now? — that  I  must  be 
tired  ?- 
And  go  without  John  who  brought  us? — Why, 

why! — 
Sit    down  here,   and  tell  me  what  is  it  that 

fired, 

And  is  trying  to  quench,  too,  that  flash   in 
your  eye. 

Not  pleasant,  was  John? — Did  not  wish  you  to 

dance? — 

How  strange! — Just  now  he  was  here  to  tell 
Of  your  triumphs;  and  pride,  too,  there  was  in 

his  glance 

When  he  pointed  you  out  as  the  ball-room's 
belle. 

Oh ! — only  one  man  of  whom  you  have  heard 
That  he  wanted  you  not  to  dance  with! — I 

see; 

And   that  man  a  stranger;  but  you,  you  pre 
ferred 

The   stranger  to   John — which   he   thought 
should  not  be? 


RIGHTING  A  WRONG.  197 

You  say  that    women    know   best   what    men 

are? — 
And  that  men  that  are  jealous  are  always 

unjust? — 

What  of  that? — It  applies  not  to  John,  so  far; 
For  he  has  a  head  and  a  heart  we  all  trust. 


Wait  here,  dear.     You  thought  I  was  lonely; 

but  no : 

Old  age  has  pleasures  that  youth  cannot  own. 
There  are  persons  and  scenes  crowd  the  memory 

so, 
'T  is  a  wonder  we  ever  feel  wholly  alone. 

You  young  people  deem  only  you  dance  here. 
Why,    dear,    while   you   were    there    on   the 

floor, 
My  soul,  as  it  has  not  for  many  a  year, 

Has  been  dancing  one  dance  that  I  dance  ever 
more. 


And  dimly,  yet  clearly,  I  saw,  too,  to-night 
The  man  whom  then  I  was  dancing  beside, 

My  heart  all  aglow,  and  my  hope  so  bright, 
For  I,  I  had  promised  to  be  his  bride. 


198          PARALLELS  AND  PARABLES. 

But  into  that  ball-room,  a  stranger  came. 

He  looked  like  a  prince  as  he  followed  my 

train. 
His  whisper  was  warm,  and  his  eyes  were  aflame ; 

And  I  was  a  moth,  and  was  young,  and  vain. 

Then  he  that  I  loved  drew  me  off,  and  declared 
That  this  man  was  a  knave,  as  he  knew; 

And  I  must  not — but  I  was  no  child  to  be  scared 
By  one  who  was  jealous. — I  felt  like  you. 

It  seemed  the  crown-time  of  my  life,  that  night. 

I  was  queen  of  all  hearts,  the  beauty,  the  belle. 
I  sat  on  a  throne  in  a  halo  of  light ; 

But  my  lover — he  lingered  outside  of  my  spell. 

He  wrote  then  a  letter.     "What  weakness!"  I 

cried ; 
"To  be  punished,  his  heart  should  be  placed 

on  a  rack." 
So  all  of  his  letters  together  I  tied, 

And  returned  them,  and  waited.     They  never 
came  back. 

He  never  came  near  me  after  that,  dear; 

Merely  dropped  a  brief  line  to  say  I  was  free. 
He  thought  I  distrusted  him, — that  was  clear; 

And  love  without  faith,  he  felt  could  not  be. 


RIGHTING  A  WRONG.  199 

The  best  hearts  often,  I  think,  are  like  his. 

They  open  their  holy  of  holies  within ; 
And  that  which  profanes  all,  whatever  it  is, 

They  cast  out  forever,  as  heaven  would  sin. 

And  I  ? — you  have  heard — it  is  not  untrue, — 
That  some  love  but  once.     Ever  since  that 
ball 

I  have  loved  no  other  my  whole  life  through ; 
And  am  only  your  old-maid-aunt,  that  is  all. 

What? — tears? — Not  for  me? — You  awoke  me, 

in  truth, 
From    the    sweetest    of    dreams. — Can    you 

guess  what  one? — 

I  am  told  that  you  look  as  I  looked  in  my  youth ; 
And  this  John  is  his  image — yes,  dear,  his  own 
son. 

He  is  coming  again! — He  is  coming,  you  see! — 
And  who  was  that  stranger  that  talked  to  her 

so?— 
She  thinks  you   disliked  him  as  much  as   did 

she. 

Keep  him  off!     Girls  feel  it  so  rude  to  say 
"No." 


200    PARALLELS  AND  PARABLES. 

Au  revoir! — and  now  I  go  back  to  my  dream. 

Some  souls  have  missions  because  misled. 
I  must  save  her  from  dreaming  how  life  might 
seem 

Were  all  that  one  cares  for  in  life  not  dead. 


SHE  WONDERS  WHY. 

LJ  IS  form  was  manly,  his  face  was  fair, 

*  *     His  character  true  and  pure. 

Would  she  be  his  bride? — He  lingered  there; 

But  "Nay,"  she  said;  he  was  "poor." 
She  sits  alone,  and  wonders  why 
He  should  think  with  nothing  a  bride  to  buy. 

He  flung  to  the  war  the  form  she  had  spurned ; 

He  hurled  it  far  in  the  strife. 
His  brave  assault  had  a  victory  earned ; 

But  he,  he  had  lost  his  life. 
She  sits  alone  and  wonders  why 
A  man  who  loved  her  should  need  to  die. 

They  brought  him  home,  and  buried  him  deep, 

In  a  soldier's  raiment  clad; 
And  she,  she  came  to  see  and  weep; 

For  his  life  had  seemed  so  sad. 


THE  WALL-FLOWER.  201 

She  sits  alone,  and  wonders  why 
No  lover  comes  as  the  years  go  by. 


THE  WALL-FLOWER. 

/^UTSIDE  the  whirlpool  of  the  ball, 
^-^     A  stranded  flower  against  the  wall, 
She  blusht  to  feel  she  stood  too  tall 

For  aught  about  to  hide. 
Why  should  a  soul  to  earth  be  brought 
And  framed  within  a  form,  she  thought, 
That  shows  no  beauty  to  be  sought  ? 

And  deeply  sad,  she  sighed. 

A  strong  man  of  the  world  was  he, 
And  round  about  him  rusht  that  sea 
And  swept  him  off ;  but  not  to  be 

The  end  of  all  his  care. 
So  held  in  hands  and  tript  in  trains, 
He  did  not  lightly  wear  the  reins, 
But  seemed  a  spirit  dragged  in  chains; 

Then  saw  her  standing  there. 

He  stood  beside  her  soon,  and  talked, 
And  out  the  garden  door  they  stalked, 
And  where  the  boughs  were  thick  they  walked, 
Ah,  how  the  hours  had  flown! 


202    PARALLELS  AND  PARABLES. 

She  never  heard  a  man  before 
With  such  a  stock  of  soulful  lore, 
Nor  thought  to  meet  his  equal  more ; 
Nor  felt  again  alone! 


HOMELESS. 

"  DERHAPS  I  failed  in  thrift,  of  old. 

It  may  serve  me  right  to  be  hungry  and  cold 
But  why  should  my  babe,  so  frail,  so  fair, 
Be  left  with  nothing  to  eat  or  wear? 
Come,  come,  my  child,  out  there  on  the  street 
Are  beautiful  homes  with  supper  and  heat ; 
And  when  they  see  to  whom  they  can  give, 
Oh,  then  they  will  help  thee  and  let  thee  live." 

She  opened  the  door.     She  walked  the  street. 

She  held  to  the  passer  her  babe  so  sweet. 

Up  many  a  stately  porch  she  crept; 

But  closed  to  her  call  their  doors  were  kept; 

And  some  there  were  even  that  named  police, 

Till  she  only  dared  to  hold  her  peace. 

Oh,  beautiful  homes,  with  so  much  to  give, 

Do  none  of  you  care  that  her  child  should  live? 

She  sank  on  a  seat.     They  sat  in  a  park. 
One  locked  its  gates.     The  night  grew  dark. 


THE  BLIZZARD.  203 

The  air  was  chilly.     The  snow  fell  deep. 
There  was  no  one  to  bid  her  babe  not  weep. 
There  was  no  one  to  cover  its  form  from  the 

blast; 

And  yet,  how  quiet  it  slept  at  last ! 
Oh,  beautiful  homes,  keep  what  ye  might  give. 
None  need  care  now  that  her  child  should  live. 


THE  BLIZZARD. 

\17ITH  a  scowling  sky  blue-black  from  a  blow, 
*  "      And  the  whur  of  a  giant  in  skirts  of  snow, 

The  blizzard  came  howling  ahead. 
"O  God,"  she  cried,"  what  a  fearful  sight! 
And  my  children  are  coming  from  school,  to 
night  ! 
I  must  fetch  them  home,"  she  said. 

She  tramped  in  the  snow,  and  battled  the  blast, 
And  just  had  fainted,  but  saw,  at  last, 

The  dear  little  pair  that  she  sought. 
"Thank  God, "  she  cried,  and,  with  freezing  tears 
That  fell  like  pearls,  while  she  freed  her  fears, 

To  her  breast  the  two  she  brought. 

The  blizzard  had  gone,  and  the  sun  shone  bright; 
But  under  a  snow-shroud — oh  so  white! — 


204    PARALLELS  AND  PARABLES. 

The  children  and  mother  lay. 
Thank  God,  she  was  there  with  a  kiss  and  a  word ; 
The    deepest    prayer    of    her    heart    had    been 
heard ; 

She  had  taken  them  home  to  stay. 


IN  THE  LIFE  BEYOND. 

CO  pale  is  the  little  cheek 

^     And  the  still  lips  will  not  speak. 

Oh,  where  is  the  life  I  seek, 

My  child,  my  child? 
Oh,  why  has  the  spirit  flown 
Without  me  to  lead  it,  alone, 
Out  into  the  dark  unknown, 

So  wide,  so  wild? 

Who  now  when  dreams  grow  deep 
Will  watch  at  the  gates  of  sleep, 
Or  wipe  these  eyes  when  they  weep 

At  scenes  unkind? 
Who  now  when  wish  and  thought 
So  yearn  to  be  helpt  or  taught 
Will  bring  the  boon  they  had  sought, 

But  could  not  find? 


IN  THE  LIFE  BEYOND.  205 

Oh,  surely  love  must  care 
For  child-life  everywhere! 
Kind  hands,  they  must  be  there, 

So  soft,  so  fond! 

They  must  keep  my  child  for  me, 
Forever  a  child  to  be, 
Where  forever  a  home  I  see 

In  the  life  beyond. 


SUGGESTIONS  FROM  CHURCH, 
STATE,  AND  SOCIETY. 


207 


A  HYMN  FOR  ALL  RELIGIONS. 

PARTIAL    CHORUSES. 

Life  that  lives  beyond  desire 
In  peace  that  makes  the  future  blest, 
Through  each  new  death,  oh  lift  us  higher, 
Till  all  shall  with  the  Bhudda  rest. 

Oh  Mind  that  knows  what  all  would  know, 
Although  Thyself  be  never  known, 

Hear  us  whose  thought  would  not  forego 
What  wise  Confucius  made  his  own. 

Oh  King  whose  glories  mortal  saw 

When  Moses  near'd  Mount  Sinai's  fires, 

Hear  us  who  still  regard  thy  law, 

And  serve  the  Lord  who  saved  our  sires. 

Oh  Leader  who  one  prophet  hath 
To  guide  the  faithful  soul  to  thee, 

Hear  us  who  ne'er  forsake  the  path 
Wherein  Mohammed's  form  we  see. 

14  209 


210      CHURCH,  STATE,  AND  SOCIETY 

Our  Father  from  thy  home  above 
Thy  call  was  heard  and  it  sufficed, 

Hear  us  for  him  who  proved  thy  love, 

Hear  us  whose  faith  hath  found  the  Christ. 


FULL    CHORUS. 

Oh  Thou  that  over  all  must  reign, 
We  should  Thy  glorious  throne  profane, 
Did  we  not  walk  in  his  dear  shade 
Whom  Thou  our  light  of  life  hast  made. 
Oh  save  us  through  his  truth  and  grace, 
Nor  let  the  lightning  of  Thy  face 
Strike  those  who  follow  in  his  train. 


RESPONSE. 

Not  every  man  that  names  the  name 
That  is  the  Lord's  can  enter  here; 

But  only  those  whose  inward  aim 

Would  do  his  will  howe'er  made  clear. 

For  naught  can  reach  the  Spirit's  throne 

Save  what  in  spirit  spirits  own. 


THE  AMERICAN  PIONEER.  21 1 

THE  AMERICAN  PIONEER.1 

all  the  world's  grand  heroes,  none  has  won 
The  right  to  be  more  honored  or  more  dear 
Than    he    who,    traveling   toward   the    setting 

sun, 

Became  our  country's  western  pioneer. 
For  strife  that  made  our  free  land  what  it  is 

Our  debt  is  not  to  Pilgrim  sires  alone. 
This  later  sire,  too,  that  each  heir  of  his 
Might  weal  inherit,  oft  gave  up  his  own. 

Think  not  for  weakness  that  could  not  have 
wrung 

His  due  from  rivals  in  his  childhood's  home, 
He  turned  from  scenes  that  he  was  reared  among, 

And  chose  in  lone  untrodden  wilds  to  roam. 
The  fledglings  first  to  flap  a  restless  wing 

Have  calmed  each  mate  that  would  their  whir 

contest, 
Long  ere,  at  last,  they  take  the  fateful  spring 

That  bears  them  off  forever  from  the  nest. 


»Read  at  the  celebration  of  the  hundredth  anniver 
sary  of  the  founding,  in  1803,  of  Potsdam,  N.  Y.,  and 
of  St.  Lawrence  Academy,  by  Benjamin  Raymond, 
Civil  Engineer  and  County  Judge. 


212      CHURCH,  STATE,  AND  SOCIETY. 

And  not  for  fame  wrought  he  who  moved  away 

Where  few  could  note  his  deeds  or  shout  his 

name. 
No  throngs  he  drew  to  tempt  him  to  display ; 

No  couriers  flew  his  triumphs  to  proclaim. 
For  years  no  sound  his  pride  of  self  increased. 

He  heard  but  echoes  of  his  axe  and  gun, 
The  night-howl  of  the  wolves,  or,  when  they 
ceased, 

The  singing  of  the  birds  to  greet  the  sun. 

And  not  for  coin  he  left  the  town's  close  ranks 

That,    bartering,    beat    him    in    tight-fisted 

strife, — 
Their  plants  all  factories,  their  granaries  banks, 

Their  atmosphere  but  that  of  man-made  life. 
His  mood  preferred  God's  primitive  exchange 

Where  well  tilled  grain  in  grain  gives  back 

returns ; 
Nor  did  he  ever  deem  it  wrong  or  strange 

That  rest  enjoys  no  more  than  effort  earns. 

Nor  fled  he  like  some  prodigal,  to  please 
Himself,  and  thus  a  father's  purpose  foil. 

No  seeker  for  a  life  of  selfish  ease 

Would  so  enroll  with  volunteers  of  toil. 


THE  AMERICAN  PIONEER.  213 

He  fought  the  wild  beasts  backward  through  the 

wood; 

To  pave  the  swamp,  he  pried  the  ledges  down ; 
Grubbed   roots   to   clear   the   field  for    others' 

food; 

Felled  trees  with  which  his  followers  built  the 
town. 

He  went  as  if  some  call  within  the  soul 

Had  come  to  urge  him  toward  the  untamed 

wild, — 
A  call  that  all  his  life-work  should  control, 

A  father's  call,  of  whom  he  seemed  a  child. 
He   must   have   felt   that   earth's   unconscious 

growth 

Could  flower  alone  in  conscious  deeds  of  man, 
And  where  man  wrought  with  nature,  there  that 

both 
Were  working  to  fulfill  a  God-formed  plan. 

His  body  served  the  soil,  but  from  the  skies 
He   breathed    the    spirit   in    with    which    he 

wrought. 
In  them  he  saw  fair  homes  and  cities  rise ; 

No    facts    could    bury    faith    that   lived    in 
thought. 


214      CHURCH,  STATE,  AND  SOCIETY. 

His  life  was  hard,  yet  seemed  a  rare  romance, 
The  sense  in  thrall,  the  soul  at  liberty ; 

And,  winged  beyond  his  age  in  its  advance, 
What  he  saw  then,  we  now  term  prophecy. 

Oh,  would  his  children  in  this  age  were  true 

To  that  which  they  inherit  from  the  past ! 
Would  they  could  look  beyond  each  present  view 

Up  through  the  clouds  and  forward  through 

the  blast! 
Still  waits  for  us  that  city  which  our  sires 

Saw  looming  in  the  realm  of  their  ideal ; 
Still  needs  the  world  the  spirit  that  aspires 

To  lead  where  earth  is  new  and  heaven  seems 
real. 


GOD  BLESS  AMERICA. 

OD  bless  America,  and  still 
Our  nation's  guardian  be, 
As  when,  of  old,  to  work  thy  will, 

Our  fathers  made  it  free. 
We  thank  thee  for  our  fertile  fields, 

For  mines  our  high  hills  dome ; 
But  more  for  kindly  rule  that  yields 
Its  due  to  every  home. 


GOD  BLESS  AMERICA.  215 

Oh,  never,  where  brute-force  would  fight 

The  ways  humane  it  hates, 
Could  aught  resist  it  like  the  might 
United  to  uphold  the  right 

In  these  United  States. 


God  bless  "the  Stars  and  Stripes"  above 

The  school,  the  shop,  the  farm. 
To  nothing  worthy  of  man's  love 

Its  flying  could  do  harm. 
Let  others  boast  a  flag  that  waves 

In  triumph  where  men  kill, 
We  prize  our  own  as  one  that  saves 

From  wrong  that  war  would  still, — 
A  symbol  of  just  laws  that  lead 

To  life  that  peace  creates, 
While  men  to  men  fair  play  concede, 
And  States  lack  neither  help  nor  heed 

That  are  United  States. 

God  bless  the  world  by  blessing  here 

The  land  of  equal  rights. 
The  man  who  deems  each  man  his  peer 

No  other's  nation  slights. 
Ay,  where  no  earthly  lords  enthrall 

Through  faith  in  sword  or  throne, 


2i6       CHURCH,  STATE,  AND  SOCIETY. 

In  God  we  trust  by  trusting  all 
In  whom  His  traits  are  shown. 

The  largest  hope  since  time  began, 
For  which  the  whole  world  waits, 

Is  that  for  which  our  statesmen  plan,— 

The  coming  Parliament  of  Man, 
The  world's  United  States. 


TO  THE  WIFE  OF  A  PUBLIC  MAN 

AS  REPORTED  BY  A  MIND-READER. 

\fOU  point  toward  us  your  finger. 

We  press  it,  if  we  choose ; 
But,  oh,  we  must  not  linger 
Your  patience  to  abuse ! 

We  dare  your  face  to  look  at; 

But  us  you  scarcely  see. 
Big  fish  for  you  to  hook  at 

Are  not  such  fry  as  we. 

Yet  not  to  pay  this  visit 
Had  seemed  for  us  a  slight. 

It  is  not  easy — is  it? — 
For  you  to  be  polite. 


TO  THE  WIFE  OF  A  PUBLIC  MAN.    217 

Of  course,  we  know  your  reason ; 

It  is  so  hard  to  drop, 
Or  in  or  out  the  season, 

The  manners  of  the  shop, — 


The  business-ways  that  culture 
New  meanness,  day  by  day, — 

The  swaggering  of  the  vulture, 
The  squirming  of  its  prey. 


Did  you  not  show  your  heart  set 
On  those  with  gold  to  spend, 

You  might  then  to  your  smart-set 
Appear  some  poor  man's  friend. 


You  think,  to  be  successful, 
With  snobs  you  ought  to  score; 

Yet  those  with  purses  less  full, 
They  number  many  more. 


They  vote  the  world's  opinion ; 

And  when  they  see  your  mien, 
Not  one  would  seem  a  minion 

That  you  may  seem  a  queen. 


218       CHURCH,  STATE,  AND  SOCIETY. 

Not  one  thing  can  you  boast  of 
That  they  would  not  dispute, 

Save  when  you  make  the  most  of 
What  makes  you  most  a  brute. 


Thank  God,  ours  is  a  nation 
That  his  own  test  controls  ; 

Nor  bows  before  high  station 
When  held  by  low-lived  souls. 


We  deem  it  merely  human 
To  not  put  under  ban 

The  deference  due  each  woman, 
The  honor  due  each  man. 


But  you — from  us  you  differ, 
And  does  your  husband,  too? — 

Or  only  for  your  sniffer 
Must  we  bid  him  adieu? 


When  us  he  seeks  applause  of 
And  bids  you  join  his  trick, 

Why  spoil  the  show  because  of 
Your  mule-like  itch  to  kick? 


HER  HAUGHTINESS.  219 

We  knew  your  record  shady, 

But  if  that  thriftless  cot 
Had  turned  you  out  a  lady, 

All  this  had  been  forgot. 

But  now — how  deeds  expose  us! — 

Your  vulgar  strain  is  real. 
Your  overbearing  shows  us 

Your  underbred  ideal. 


HER  HAUGHTINESS. 

C  HE  stands  erect  and  overlooks 

^     Those  she  would  make  look  up  to  her 

And,  scepter-like,  her  straight  hand  brooks 

A  touch,  but  not  a  hand-shake,  sir. 
She  walks,  and  clearance  for  her  feet 

Expects  from  all  men  not  profane. 
No  brute  so  trod  a  field  of  wheat 

To  bend  and  break,  not  thresh,  the  grain. 

The  poor  and  weak — oh,  not  to  them 
She  turns  a  heedful  eye  or  ear! 

Could  rags  of  theirs  offset  a  gem? 
Or  feeble  voices  lend  a  cheer? 


220      CHURCH,  STATE,  AND  SOCIETY. 

Yet  if  a  great  man  you — aha ! — 

Or  wealth  or  honor  can  confer, 
No  Moses  tapping  Meribah 

Could  slake  conceit's  hot  thirst  like  her. 

And  would  you  question  how  was  won 

The  high  regard  she  claims  from  earth? 
Think  not  she  feels  that  service  done 

For  manhood  measures  manhood's  worth. 
Nay,  nay;  no  meanest  epithet 

Her  antecedents  could  traduce 
Which  one,  save  those  who  can  forget, 

Or  wealth  can  bribe,  would  deem  abuse. 

I  say  this  not  because  no  white 

Became  her  mother  but  the  shroud's ; — 
A  flower  may  blossom,  sweet  and  bright, 

Though  grown  in  mire  where  hang  but  clouds 
And  not  because,  to  dig  for  pelf, 

Her  father  soiled  both  soul  and  hand ; — 
Each  spirit  by  and  in  itself, 

Insures  what  heaven  should  bless  or  brand. 

I  blame  her  not  because  her  veins 
Contain  her  foul  forefathers'  blood, 

But  that  her  own  work  now  maintains 
The  present  spring  that  taints  its  flood. 


HER  HAUGHTINESS.  221 

I  blame  the  beauty  in  her  face, 

The  beacon-flashes  in  her  eye, 
The  faultless  form,  the  luring  grace, 

All  made  by  her  a  living  lie. 

A  living  lie ! — In  realms  of  right 

With  no  such  charms  is  wrong  indued ; 
All  beauty  is  the  halo  bright, 

The  coming  glow  of  God  and  good. 
What  foe  to  worth  that  rules  above 

Sent  forth,  to  serve  but  greed  and  pelf, 
This  outward  messenger  of  love 

With  inward  mission  but  for  self? 

In  her  the  smile  that  brings  life  cheer, 

The  tone  that  faith  can  understand, 
The  phrase  that  makes  the  doubtful  clear, 

The  clasp  that  plights  the  helping  hand, 
The  sympathies  that  zest  infuse, 

The  comradeships  that  souls  ally, 
Her  heart  has  never  thrilled  to  use, 

Her  head  has  never  planned  to  try. 

Alas,  to  know  what  life  can  be, 

And  then  to  know  what  her  life  is ! — 

That,  such  a  thing  to  pity,  she 
Should  dream  of  her  priorities! 


222      CHURCH,  STATE,  AND  SOCIETY. 

I  doubt  if  one  could  find  a  soul 

Whose  love  for  her  would  be  avowed ; 

And  yet,  when  playing  such  a  role, 

Good  God ! — to  think  she  can  be  proud ! 


THE  SOCIETY  LEADER. 

JM  O  princess  merely  born  to  reign 

Could  boast  a  more  desired  domain, — 
More  loyal  followers  in  her  train, 

For  she  rules  head  and  heart. 
To  vie  with  her,  the  rolling  drum, 
The  bugle  call  would  both  be  dumb. 
They  could  not  bid  such  homage  come 

Or  such  repute  impart. 

And  not  for  naught  do  men,  I  ween, 

Like  bees  that  swarm,  make  one  their  queen, 

And,  actor-like  in  every  scene, 

Yield  her  the  leading  r61e. 
For  if  that  role  make  true  and  real 
The  hope  that  heeds  a  high  ideal, 
What  heaven-sent  goddess  could  reveal 

More  good  to  bless  the  soul? 


THE  SOCIETY  LEADER.  223 

But  if  her  social  touch  infest 

The  town  with  some  contagious  pest, 

Whose  nights  of  fever  know  no  rest, 

Nor  days,  in  all  the  seven, 
Her  hand  may  guide  where  souls  but  weep, 
Not  less  for  loss  of  dreams  in  sleep 
Than  loss  of  waking  dreams  that  keep 

The  spirit  near  to  heaven. 

And  if  she  lure  to  seek  success 

Through  debt-bought  houses,  motors,  dress, 

And  all  that  drugs  to  thoughtlessness 

The  thought  that  minds  would  shirk, 
Be  dupes  beguiled  to  fling  away 
The  hard-earned  token-coin  of  pay, 
Dishonoring,  in  the  craze  of  play, 

The  law  that  blesses  work, — 

If  thus  to  ill  her  lead  incline, 
Deluded  throngs  that  push  and  pine 
To  get  inside  her  circle's  line 

Might  better  seek  a  herse. 
No  soul  that  once  becomes  the  prey 
Of  her  whose  form  exerts  the  sway 
Of  beauty  but  to  lead  astray 

Could  find  a  devil  worse. 


LOVE  AND  LIFE. 


is  225 


LOVE  AND  LIFE. 
I 

I    IFE  is  a  mystery,  mystery  bound. 

*-**     Above  or  about  us  no  rest  is  found. 

Our  past  is  a  dream  of  the  soul's  dim  home; 

Our  future  a  scheme  for  the  mist  and  the  foam. 

The  winds  drive  us  on ;  we  shudder  but  steer ; 

We  tack  for  safety,  we  drift  in  fear; 

We  cry  for  help  and  a  helper,  but  none 

Will  answer  our  cry;  we  struggle  alone. 

If  our  landing,  indeed,  were  near  some  light 

To  signal  the  harbor  were  now  in  sight. 

Be  alert,  my  soul,  nor  ever  a  ray 

Let  gleam  unused  when  the  gloom  gives  way. 

No  doubt  or  danger  can  ever  dispense 

With  a  sigh  or  a  sign  for  spirit  or  sense. 


II 


Ah,  whither  do  lines  of  the  long  course  tend, 
And  when  will  the  task  of  tracking  them  end  ? 
227 


228  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

No  voice  can  tell  us.     No  other  can  show 
What  no  one  except  ourselves  can  know. 

On  the  way  to  the  grave, 

Though,  over  the  wave, 
Loom  many  a  shore  past  many  a  shoal, 
But  one  port  waits  for  any  one  soul. 

By  himself  alone 

He  must  make  his  quest 
For  a  home  to  own 

In  the  land  of  the  best. 

III. 

What  order  but  this, 

At  the  world's  first  dawn, 
Made  clear  the  abyss 

Through  the  dark  withdrawn  ? 
Off  flew  on  their  missions 

The  systems  and  stars, 
To  waiting  fruitions 

That  time  still  bars ; 
And  high  rose  the  mountains ; 

And  broad  reacht  the  plains ; 
And  up  burst  the  fountains ; 

And  down  fell  the  rains ; 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  229 

And,  water 'd  between, 
Came  on  earth  that  was  green ; 
And,  fragrant 
And  beautiful, 

Herbage  and  flower; 
And,  vagrant 
Or  dutiful, 

Manhood,  a  power, 
Whose  glory 
And  story 
Is  always  this, — 
That  the  spirit  of  life 
Is  a  spirit  of  strife; 

And,  whatever  the  thing  we  may  gain  or  miss, 
The  end  of  it  all  is  to  lie  like  a  knight 
Whose  rest  is  the  weariness  won  in  a  fight. 
The  world  whirls  us  on,  and,  in  reason  or  rage, 
We  bustle  and  jostle  from  childhood  to  age. 


IV. 


Lo,  feebly  rises 
A  voice  that  wails, 

As  life  surprises 

And  lifts  the  veils 
From  the  eyes  of  a  babe  that  little  prizes 


230  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

An  unsought  birth 
In  a  lone  chill  earth 

Where  it  weeps  and  wonders  what  life  is  worth ! 
The  eyes  draw  back  from  the  points  of  the  light 

That  glance  from  a  world  that  is  all  in  a  glitter. 
The  cheeks  to  mysteries  huge  look  fright. 

The  swaddling  chafes  and  the  cups  are  bitter. 
The  small  hands  clutch  for  motes  of  the  air, 

For  plaits  of  the  dress,  for  folds  of  the  bed; 
But  the  marvels  move  and  mingle  and  tear, 

Redoubled  by  every  shred. 
Soon,  limbs  that  balance  the  tottering  brain 
Fall  down  in  the  pathway  damp  with  the  rain; 
Or  fly  with  shrieks  from  the  boisterous  joys, — 
The  barking  and  bounding  of  dogs  and  boys, 
And  wheels  incessantly  grinding  out  noise. 
And  if,  indeed,  the  flowers  be  sweet, 
The  garden  is  close  to  the  long,  wide  street, 
And  all  the  big  houses,  and  who  can  they  be 
The  smileless  people  so  stern  to  see? 


V. 


The  lone  little  being,  bewildered  by  needs 
And  thoughts  it  can  speak  not,  or  nobody  heeds, 
Ah,  where  can  it  find  any  respite  or  rest, 
Till  cradled,  anon,  on  its  mother's  breast, 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  231 

Its  faith  a  feeling  by  none  withstood ; 

Its  hope  that  of  saints  in  God  and  in  good ; 

And    its    love,    ah    would     none    ever     could 

roam 

From  the  LOVE  OF  THE  CHILD  in  the  joy  of  the 
home 

Where  none  seem  alone, 

But  a  part  of  life's  whole, 
Whom  love,  when  shown, 
Hath  joined  in  soul. 


VI. 


Behold,  at  the  heart's  least  token, 

The  babe  and  the  mother, 
Whose  lives  apart  had  broken, 

At  one  with  each  other! 
But,  ah,  sweet  babe,  if  thy  mother  incline 

To  welcome  thy  fears 
With  words  that  direct  toward  the  work  of  the 

years 

More  voiced  for  her  nature  than  thine, 
The    first    of   earth's   parents   could   no    more 

undo 
Than  the  last  of  their  kind,  through  self-seeking 

too, 
Who  tamper  with  nature's  design. 


232  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

VII. 

What  a  spirit  earth  needs  in  the  mother ! 

Who  else  can  inspire 
To  a  life  to  be  loved  by  another 

The  future's  desire? 
The  tender  plant  that  springs  to  the  air 

From  the  small  frail  urn  of  youth 
Is  trained,  if  at  all,  by  a  woman's  care 

For  the  flowering  and  fruitage  of  truth. 
Each  home  is  an  Eden  that  owns  an  Eve 
Whose  deeds  make  all  life  joy  or  grieve. 

What  a  work  to  be  done  by  the  mother, 

Ere,  out  from  the  home, 
To  be  shadowed  and  shaped  by  another, 

The  child  must  roam ; 
Ere  battered  and  tattered  by  earth, 

No  matter  how  loath, 
With  a  push  that  is  his  by  birth, 

An  impulse  of  growth, 
He  is  warring  to  win  or  to  lose  in  the  strife 
Where  the  stoutest  of  all  must  battle  for  life, 

VIII. 

God  shield  his  frame 
And  straighten  his  aim; 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  233 

For  no  help  else,  or  early  or  late, 

Can  ward  his  form  in  the  war  with  fate ; 

No  help  ward  those  who  must  weep  for  one 

Who  fell  as  the  battle  had  just  begun ; 

Whom  life  had  afforded  not  one  chance 

To  tender  his  aid  in  the  world's  advance. 

Oh,  if  there  be  laws  that  faith  can  trust, 

High  laws  that  righten  all  things  unjust, 

What  spheres  for  dreaming  and  doing  must  lie 

In  airs  not  domed  by  a  mortal  sky! 

What  fulness  of  living  must  life  contain 

Where  losing  one's  life  on  earth  seems  gain ! 

Well  might  it  seem  so,  if  a  soul  no  more 

Should  need  to  struggle,  bruised  and  sore, — 

By  himself  alone 

To  make  his  quest 
For  a  home  to  own 

In  the  land  of  the  best. 


IX. 


What  joy  does  the  bell 
Of  the  school  foretell 

To  the  child  who  first,  with  book  and  slate, 
And  bounding  step  for  his  fancied  fate, 


234  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

Goes  out  from  home,  whose  dear  eyes  yearn, 
Out  into  the  world  with  a  world  to  learn! 

Alas  for  the  feet  that  trip  through  the  street ! 
Those  throngs  before 
The  school-house  door 
Are  a  hostile  host  to  meet. 
Those  unknown  quizzical  girls  and  boys 
Have  made  the  eye 
So  keen,  grow  shy ; 
And  a  blush  takes  the  place 
Of  the  flush  on  the  face 
That  shrinks  from  the  hoped-for  joys ; 
And  sad  to  the  stranger  and  drear  and  dim 
Seems   a  world  of  pleasure    that    knows    not 
him. 


X. 


What  zest  does  the  sport 

Of  the  school  import 
Into  life,  as  its  ways  unfold! 
As  the  child  in  his  turn  grows  bold ; 
And,  with  tests  that  have  made  his  own  soul 

stout, 

Assails  his  fellows  their  fears  to  rout ! 
Alas  for  his  elders'  rebukes  and  sighs! 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  235 

His  mind  is  away 

At  play  all  day, 

Nor  cares  for  a  school-room  prize. 
But  if  a  spirit  of  love  and  of  zeal 

In  others  inspire  him 

Through  toils  that  tire  him, 

What  nobler  throne 

Could  their  spirits  own, 
What  realm  more  royal  in  weal ! 
The  autocrat's  pride  in  his  haughtier  train 
The  miser's  clutch  for  the  glut  of  his  gain, 

Are  as  shade  to  the  light, 
Are  as  hell  to  a  heaven,  compared  to  their  lot 

Though  humble  and  poor,  whose  lives  incite 
And  train  men's  thinking  that  else  were  not. 


XL 


What  a  test  of  all  life 

Is  the  school-time  strife! 
Oh,  who  is  he  that  shall  win  life's  prize? — 
He  may  be  the  least  in  his  comrades'  eyes. 
For  the   compass   that   saves   when   mysteries 

throng 

Would  better  be  sensitive  first  than  strong. 
The  triumph  of  sinew  and  speed  are  brief; 


236  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

For  the  harbor  sought  is  dim  and  far, 

Past  many  a  bar, 
And  many  a  well  hid  reef. 
From  many  a  moon-lit  bay  men  bless 

Bright  beacons  beck 

Toward  death  and  wreck, 
And  many  are  winds  that  rise  and  roar 

To  drive  ashore. 

Ah  me,  the  pilots  of  sure  success 
Sail  not  at  random,  nor  steer  by  guess. 
The  voyage  of  life  is  a  voyage  for  naught, 
If  souls  keep  not  to  one  thing  sought, 
And  never  forget  to  give  it  their  thought. 

XII. 


The  new  has  claims 

That  the  old  has  not. 
How  much  for  games 

Is  the  home  forgot ! 

There  are  sports  for  green  and  river  and  hall, 
Kite  and  see-saw,  fishing  and  ball, 
Clubs  and  parties,  music  and  fun, 
Books  to  study  and  slight  and  shun, 
And  fresh  little  thoughts  in  tones  that  tinkle, 
As  dance  the  dimples  that  round  them  wrinkle, 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  237 

More  dear  to  refresh  the  soul  with  delight 
Than  all  of  their  elders'  reason  and  right. 
For  the  healthful,  heartful  blush 

Of  youth's  fair  spring-time's  flower  and  fruit, 
Is  never  the  autumn's  hectic  flush 

Of  a  life  that  fades  and  dies  at  the  root. 

XIII. 

Oh,  where  are  the  minds  that  pair 

With  those  that  their  own  have  outgrown, 
Nor  long  for  another  to  share 

In  moods  at  one  with  their  own? 
How  oft  a  prize  may  be  won, 

How  oft  the  applause  of  the  throng, 
Yet  to  him  that  hears  the  "Well  done," 

The  whole  world  yet  seems  wrong ! 
He  knows  not  why  till  a  face 

With  eyes  that  the  soul  shines  through, 
Forsakes  all  others,  to  trace 

And  find  his  own  that  withdrew ; 
Till  feelings  as  timid  as  his, 

Yet  yearning  for  love,  and  alone, 
Unveil  all  the  mysteries 

That  hide  their  soul  from  his  own. 
Oh,  where  is  the  peace  on  earth, 

In  which  more  peace  can  blend, 


238  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

Or  pride  in  a  loftier  sense  of  worth, 
Than  follows  the  LOVE  OF  THE  FRIEND? 

Not  all  the  doubts  of  the  creeds 
Can  shake  their  faith  who  find 

No  selfishness  back  of  the  deeds 
Of  one  pure  sensitive  mind. 

They  are  not  alone, 

But  a  part  of  life's  whole, 

Whom  love,  when  shown, 
Hath  joined  in  soul. 

XIV. 

The  friends  that  in  closeted  hours  confess 
The  faith  so  dear 

That  both  possess, 
When  others  are  near, 
Abide  contented  not  to  reveal, 
But  merely  to  feel, 
In  walking 
Or  talking, 

That  some  one  is  nigh 
With  a  kindling  eye ; 

And  some  one  exults  at  their  well  earned  pride. 
To  tattle  of  love  were  suicide. 
No  trumpet  or  drumming 
Proclaims  the  coming 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  239 

Of  God  on  high  to  a  spirit  on  earth. 

Then  wherefore  of  love,  if  it  have  any  worth  ? 

XV. 

Dear  vows,  they  are  meant  when  made, 

Of  friendship  forever  to  last ; 
But  there,  where  the  morn's  bright  beams  were 

cast 

On  a  world  so  fair 

That  all  seemed  like  a  dream  of  an  Eden  rare, 
Can  the  rays  of  the  sun  as  it  sets  bring  shade. 

But  even  the  night 

Holds  the  moon's  mild  light; 
And  whenever  the  sun  return  again, 

The  fields  that  flame 

To  its  touch  are  the  same ; 
And,  whenever  the  loved  return,  ah,  then, 

For  the  soul  there  are  joys, 

Tho'  the  girls  and  the  boys 
Gaze  out  through  the  guises  of  women  and  men. 

XVI. 

How  soon  the  tints  of  morn  fade  away, 
And  the  sun  is  clouded,  and  skies  are  gray! 
Whatever  the  promise  of  rest  or  of  toil, 
There  never  can  be  an  earthly  soil, 


240  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

But  flood  and  earthquake  tear; 

There  never  can  be  an  earthly  air, 

But  wind  and  lightning  rend. 

Vain  then  to  think  of  an  earthly  friend 

Whose  love  and  help  can  last ! 

For  all,  whenever  their  day  be  past, 

The  air  they  breathe,  the  soil  they  tread 

Will  close  in  a  coffin  and  leave  them  dead ; 
And  he  that  sought 
For  the  strength  they  brought 

By  himself  alone 

Must  make  his  quest 
For  a  home  to  own 

In  the  land  of  the  best. 

XVII. 

There  comes  a  time  that  none  can  escape, 
When  each  for  himself  a  choice  must  make, 
Must  turn  to  a  path  that  is  right  or  is  wrong, 
And  the  path  that  he  takes  is  a  path  life-long. 
What  though  some  weak,  mild  memory  know 
Not  the  hour  nor  the  day  that  tested  it  so  ? 
What  though  some  shrink  from  the  woes  before 
With  a  shock  that  is  never  forgotten  more? — 
All  noted  their  paths,  and  thought  of  the  change 
Till  nothing  that  came  seem'd  wholly  strange ; 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  241 

And  though  there  is  little  for  curses  or  hymns 

In  a  thought  of  the  earth  or  the  skies, 
Our  wishes  and  ways  are  heirs  of  our  whims, 

And  our  footsteps  follow  our  eyes. 
Great  crimes  can  never  their  souls  allure, 
Who  have  kept  their  moods  and  memories  pure, 

And  so  I  know, 

That  the  souls  that  hold  to  the  right  with  ease, 
Have  fought  their  vices  before  they  fall. 
The  time  to  stop  sinning 
Is  ere  its  beginning. 
Allow'd  to  grow, 

The  germs  of  guilt,  like  those  of  disease, 
Prove  deadly  because  they  seem  so  small. 

XVIII. 

How  much  we  need  this  lesson,  alas! 
We  sally  forth :   we  mix  with  the  mass : 
We  meet  a  world,  too  willing  to  show 
How  little  about  the  world  we  know. 

When  only  a  boy, 
To  know  a  little  is  all  our  joy. 

But  alas,  for  a  man, 
His  trials  begin  as  Adam's  began! 
Like  him,  we  all  would  be  gods,  and  boast 
Of  knowledge  and  power  to  the  uttermost. 

16 


242  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

When  comes  the  day 

Revealing  how  small 
Is  the  sphere  that  life  has  allotted  us  all, 

We  choose  a  way 
To  rise  or  to  fall ; 

We  accept  from  above, 

And  use  with  love 

Our  partial  dower, 
And  learn  to  master  and  make  it  a  power; 

Or  we  boast  of  what 

Our  souls  have  not, 

And  turn  from  the  frank,  fair  ways  of  truth 
To  the  ways  that  avoid  it,  and  think,   forsooth, 
That  nothing  can  shatter  a  sham  defense 
That  hides  our  hollowness  in  pretense. 

XIX. 

Alas,  if  the  world  affect  one  so, 
How  suddenly  old  the  young  may  grow! 
No  longer  they  seek  for  the  right,  too  vain 
To  ask  it,  and  make  their  ignorance  plain. 
No  longer  they  struggle  for  love  that  lends 
No  more  than  frailty  borrows  from  friends. 
No  longer  they  live  in  the  light,  but  trust 
Disguises  that  doom  them  to  garbs  of  dust. 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  243 

Oh  earth,  tho'  royal  the  robes  you  bring, 
They  stifle  the  spirit  to  which  they  cling! 
For  none  are  free,  when  the  truth  shines  bright, 
Who  would  fly  or  hide  themselves  from  sight. 

They  are  free  alone, 

Who  dare  to  hold  their  souls  to  the  light, 
And  have  their  innermost  motives  known. 


XX. 

What  joys  are  as  great,  since  the  world  began, 
As  the  joy  of  the  soul  whose  depths  impart 
The    LOVE    OF   THE    LOVER   that   opens   the 

heart 

Of  the  man  to  the  maid  and  the  maid  to  the  man ! 
The  cup  of  life  that  was  hollow  and  dry 
Is  thrilling  and  filling 
And  sparkling  and  spilling. 
Live  high !  is  the  cry ; 
Live  high !  as  the  glasses  clash  and  jingle, 
And  currents  of  life  in  them  mingle  and  tingle. 
The  spirit  within  has  flooded  each  brim, 
And  eyes  grow  dizzy  and  dazed  and  dim. 
Both  drink  till  they  reel,  and  around  and  around 
The  world  goes  whirling.     Ah,  never  so  bright 
Was  ever  the  world ! — Their  spirits  have  found 


244  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

The  realm  of  the  stars,  and  at  last  caught  sight 
Past  the  sparks  that  are  flying,  the  source  of  all 
light. 

They  are  not  alone, 

But  a  part  of  life's  whole 

Whom  love,  when  shown, 
Hath  joined  in  soul. 

XXI. 

There  dawns,  transfiguring  earth  and  skies, 
A  day  in  the  light  of  which  faith  may  be  sure 
What  power  makes  all  life  be  and  endure. 
It  comes,  when,  filling  with  hope,  we  rise 

Redeemed  in  soul  by  the  Spirit  of  Truth ; 
And  it  comes  with  assent  that  glorifies 
A  soul  that  has  won  the  love  of  its  youth. 

Ah,  never  the  trills 
Of  the  birds  were  half  so  thrillingly  sweet ; 

Nor  ever  the  rills 
Rolled  on  so  clear  at  the  feet. 

The  leaves  are  all  flowers, 
And  crystal  all  showers. 

Through  the  clouds  the  green  hills  loom,  as  grand 
As  the  nearing  shores  of  a  spirit -land; 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  245 

And  the  lights  of  the  stars  gleam  down  thro'  a 

soul 

That  heaves  like  a  wave  of  the  infinite  whole. 
We  float  and  fuse  in  the  fragrant  air ; 
We  fade  from  ourselves ;  we  die  to  all  care. 
Ay,  she  that  is  ours  in  that  moment  of  bliss 
Brings  all  immortality,  worth  not  this. 
Nay,  nay,  we  have  gain'd  the  life  above. 
Who  dares  to  deny  it  to  our  first  love? 
We  have,  we  have  eternity! — Yet 
The  brightest  of  suns  may  rise  to  set. 
How  blest  are  they  who  never  find  out 
How  earthly  love,  like  its  home,  shifts  about! 

XXII. 

Romance  is  a  dream 
That  the  wise  esteem, 
For  none  whom  it  never  possest 
Were  ever  the  bravest  or  best. 
The  helpers  that  bend  to  all  need 
Are  sensitive  first  to  heed 

The  calls  that  are  nearest. 
The  loving  all  learn  the  art 
Of  opening  mind  and  heart 

With  those  that  are  dearest. 


246  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

And,  oh,  wherever  two  souls  agree 
With  every  mood  transparent  within, 

How  pure  they  grow  to  the  eyes  that  see, 
How  empty  themselves  of  sin ! 

XXIII. 

The  spirit  of  love  is  far  too  rare 
For  ever  deceit  or  doubt  to  dare,— 
A  hallow' d  spirit  whom  awed  delight 
Must  ever  worship  in  robes  of  white. 
Too  oft  by  a  touch  that  never  was  meant 
The  veil  of  its  holy  of  holies  is  rent ; 
Too  oft  from  a  heedless  impious  tone 

Love's  glory  has  flown. 
The  souls  that  together  lived  in  light, 
They  weep  apart  through  the  long,  long  night. 

XXIV. 

Where  is  hell?     Ah  me,  there  is  life  on  earth 
Torn  away  from  all  it  is  worth. 
Things  are  severed  by  nature  allied : 
Wish  and  all  of  its  wants  divide. 
Who  but  the  loving  are  dupes  of  hate  ? 
Who  but  the  faithful  are  foiled  by  fate? 
Who  but  the  seekers  of  truth  can  find 
Half  of  the  falsehood  framed  for  the  mind  ? 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  247 

Who  but  those  with  ideals  fair 
Deal  with  a  real  life  hard  to  bear? 
True  to  an  instinct  cheating  all  trust, 
Flapping  white  wings  that  raise  but  the  dust, 
Stuck  like  stones  in  the  mire  of  the  earth, 
What  for  our  souls  are  the  bright  stars  worth ! 

XXV. 

Love  is  the  flame  of  a  fire  divine 

Lit  and  fanned  on  an  earthly  shrine. 

Heaven  and  earth  both  claim  it  their  own. 

Why  should  either  let  it  alone  ? 

Why  should  the  earth  not  strive  to  show 

That  all  of  its  traits  belong  below? 

Why  should  the  heaven  be  loathe  to  try 

To  prove  that  they  all  belong  on  high  ? 

For  the  most  of  us  men,  betwixt  the  two, 

The  only  things  that  are  left  to  do 

Are  to  grieve  that  the  one  has  lowered  our  love, 

Or  to  mourn  that  the  other  has  borne  it  above. 

Whichever  life's  plan, 

It  leaves  the  man 

By  himself  alone 

To  make  his  quest 
For  a  home  to  own 

In  the  land  of  the  best. 


248  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

XXVI. 

One  seeks  not  to  rhyme 

An  excuse  for  a  crime, 
Who  speaks  but  a  truth  that  is  true  in  all  time, 

And  says  that  the  art 

Of  breaking  the  heart 
Is  not  confined  to  one  sex  at  the  start. 

Who  are  they  that  dance 

With  our  early  romance, 
Alluring  us  on  to  love  with  a  glance? 

There  are  girls  who  decoy 

The  more  modest  boy, 
Whose  faith  they  entrap  to  treat  like  a  toy. 

Who  are  they  that  start 
Their  hand  for  our  heart, 

Then  fling  down  the  mitten  to  see  how  we  smart  ? 
They  are  maids  who  propose 
That  we  love  as  do  those 

Who  have  flirted  their  limit  of  love  to  a  close. 

Who  the  most  are  adverse 
To  a  man  with  no  purse, 
And  smile  if  we  think  with  no  heart  he  is  worse  ? 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  249 

They  are  matrons  who  trade 
The  soul  of  the  maid, 
And  the  bride  deem  best  who  has  been  best  paid. 

Who  are  they  that  sigh 

As  we  ask  of  them  "Why?" 
"There  is  nothing  like  learning.     You  learn  by 
and-by" 

They  are  women  whose  flings 

At  the  sacredest  things 
Have  poisoned  all  life  in  its  life-giving  springs. 

XXVII. 

Ah  me,  is  it  wisdom  that  makes  men  say 

That  feeling  to  frankness  should  never  give  way  ? 

It  surely  is  better  to  trust  our  own  soul 

And  be  true  to  ourselves  than  to  others'  control. 

In  love  it  is  better  to  live  while  we  live, 

Than  to  wait  till  our  ghost  has  nothing  to  give ; 

While  all  that  is  in  us  is  yearning  to  band, 

Give  a  heart  for  acceptance  as  well  as  a  hand. 

Love,  rarest  of  passions,  with  burnings  untold, 

Refines  all  the  being  to  turn  out  its  gold. 

One  sound  of  their  kindling,  wrong  hears  as  a 

knell, 
And  sinks  from  that  heaven  as  far  as  to  hell. 


250  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

He  is  curst  who  would  clog  with  caution's  alloy 
What  strengthens  our  virtue  or  sweetens  our 

joy, 
Who  would  chill  into  calmness  what  flows  from 

the  heart 
Till  it  show  but  the  ice-like  sparkle  of  art. 

XXVIII. 

Alas,  the  spirit,  aspiring  much, 
May  find  its  vision  flit  at  a  touch ! 
What  right  has  a  mortal  here  to  control 

Another  in  soul?— 

No  more  than  a  fiend,  when  starting  to  clutch, 
And  drag  another  to  dwell 

In  its  hell!— 
Yet  oh,  a  fiend  too 

Might  deem  it  sweet 
To  know  of  a  soul  to  his  own  soul  true ; 

And  if  their  lips  were  to  meet, 
I  think  in  the  swoon  that  followed  that  kiss, 
They  might  die  to  wrong,  and  awake  in  bliss. 

XXIX. 

How  slightly  the  long  years  change  our  life ! 
We  broke  for  a  look  and  a  whisper  of  strife ; 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  251 

We  thought  that  the  seasons  the  past  would 

screen : 
The  winters  were  chill,  but  the  spring  was  green. 

We  call'd   up  our  passion  and  pride   in  their 

might; 

But  others  we  sought  for,  brought  no  delight. 
We  push'd  through  the  city:  we  stroll'd  through 

the  park: 
One  spake  in  the  silence ;  one  moved  in  the  dark. 

We  dream'd  we  could  mould  our  being  to  stone : 
Our  heart  became  cold,  and  we  wandered  alone. 
God  made  us  for  life ;  a  statue  we  stood. 
The  surface  felt  smooth,  and  the  world  called  us 
good. 

But,  anon,  did  the  marble-like  mien  convulse, 
The  heart  beat  strongly,  and  warm  flow  the 

pulse, 

The  dull  ear  listen,  the  glaring  eye  see, 
Oh  love,  that  forgives,  God's  love  is  in  thee! 

XXX. 

Behold,  storm-toss'd  in  the  night, 

The  soul  desponding  hears, 
Like  the  fiat  of  God  at  creation, 

The  fiat  of  love,  "Let  there  be  light!" 


252  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

And  the  air  around  one  clears, 

And  a  radiant  face  appears, 
Like  a  sun,  and  with  it  a  revelation 

Of  beauty  and  worth 

In  heaven  and  earth. 
Were  they  ever  before  so  bright? 
Was   there   ever   such   glory   that   burst   from 

gloom 
As  the  LOVE  OP  THE  WEDDED  PAIR,  bride  and 

groom  ? 

They  are  not  alone 
But  a  part  of  life's  whole, 

Whom  love  when  shown, 
Hath  joined  in  soul. 

XXXI. 

Now,  over  the  will  that  slept 

And  dreamt  of  the  guard  it  kept, 

There  steals  the  sweetest  of  powers  to  possess, 

So  like  to  the  beauty  of  Holiness, 

That  ever,  to  souls  that  awake,  it  appeals 

Like  a  vision  that  heaven  itself  reveals. 

Is  it  something  new  or  something  old? 

How  can  it  be  new  and  faith  so  bold  ? 

How  can  it  be  old,  and  hope  not  cold? 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  253 

Or  can  it  be  both? — so  dull  to  the  good, 
Our  souls  wait  long  to  learn  what  they  should : 
There  is  memory  far.  more  real  than  sight ; 
And  a  state  immortal  where  age  brings  might. 

XXXII. 

An  eye,  when  seeing 
The  sphere  of  being, 

May  look  out  through  the  senses,  or  else  look  in. 
But  looks  each  way,  toward  a  different  goal, 
Toward  hell  through  the  senses  and  heaven 

through  the  soul. 

Who  searches  without  and  not  within, 
He  thinks  the  good  far  off  that  is  near ; 
And  sees  no  heaven  tho'  heaven  be  here. 
If  that  which  he  worship  be  worldly  pelf, 
Oh,  he  knows  not 
What  souls  have  got 
Whose  God  is  the  God  of  the  inward  self. 

Oh,  he  knows  not 
Why  such  as  they  care  never  a  jot, 

That  he  finds  fault 

With  the  one  that  they  so  love  and  trust. 
He  may  be  just, 
But  judges  by  sight. 

The  things  that  are  seen  may  all  be  white. 
One's  own  is  the  sugar;  the  others'  are  salt. 


254  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

XXXIII. 

But  who  can  trace 

What  is  under  a  face? 

Does  a  quiet  mien 

Tell  of  hope  serene 

From  a  spirit  withdrawn,  through  inward  grace, 
To  dwell  in  a  realm  where  is  no  distress  ? 

Or  is  it  the  stare 

Of  one  dead  to  care, 
Since  dead  to  all  but  to  selfishness? — 
The  brightest  of  glances, — oh  trust  it  never!— 
May  flash  from  a  passion  to  scorch  forever. 

Light  brightens  the  sky 

When  a  dawn  is  nigh, 

Or  when  a  volcano. — Some  women,  once  wed, 
Drop  the  smile  from  their  face  with  the  veil  they 

have  shed. 
Some  men  are  suitors  who  offer  their  hands 

Like  the  opening  palms 
Of  beggars  when  kneeling  and  asking  for  alms; 

But  the  one  that  pays  heed 

They  clutch  in  their  greed, 

Turning  fingers  to  fists  and  prayers  to   com 
mands. 

What  need  of  disguise  when  a  prey  is  secure, 
And  divorce  is  disgrace  in  society  pure? — 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  255 

Soon,  bird-like,  flitting  from  homes  unblest, 
Their  singing  is  all  outside  of  their  nest. 


XXXIV. 

What  serpent  is  this 

That  would  whisper  and  hiss 

The  damning  advice 

Of  the  first  Paradise,— 

That  those  who  would  equal  the  lords  of  creation 
Must  mount  through  force  to  a  lordlier  station? 
True  love  forever  fulfils  the  ideal 
Of  faith,  that  in  loving,  can  love  to  kneel. 
Ah  me,  what  danger  and  doom  may  lurk, 
Ye  daughters  of  Eve,  in  a  scheme  that  would 
wrest 

From  hearts  that  would  give  it, 

Would  ye  but  live  it, 
A  sovereignty  already  possest! 
Oh,  how  can  a  mortal  dare  to  touch 
And  tarnish  and  bruise  with  an  impious  clutch 
The  finish  of  all  creation's  work, 

Ere  the  hand  of  love 

Was  lifted  above? 
Oh,  how  can  a  spirit  ever  be  proud 
Of  an  ermine  that  fits  it  no  more  than  a  shroud  ? — 


256  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

Of  beauty  that  all  is  only  a  mask, 
A  label  for  death-drugs  hid  in  a  flask? — 
Of  sympathy  waived  for  sharpness  of  eye? — 
Of  sweetness,   for  weakness  that  wins  with  a 
lie? 


XXXV. 

Far  better  than  bodies  that  rot  before 

The  breath  has  left  them,  and  hold  no  more, 

In   the   haunted  hell  that  is  glassed  by  their 

eyes, 

A  charm  to  inspire,  a  thought  to  make  wise,— 
Far  better  than  these,  the  face  as  white 
As  ashes  where  dead  fires  drop  their  light ; 
Far  better  the  eyes,  all  dim  and  dry, 
But  blind  as  one's  own  that  can  but  cry ; 
Far  better  the  crape  and  the  veils  that  fall ; 
Far  better  the  living  room  turned  to  a  pall. 
All  these,  whatever  the  future  may  give, 
Have  proved  that  love  has  a  right  to  live, 

Though  all  alone 

One  make  his  quest 
For  a  home  to  own 

In  the  land  of  the  best. 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  257 

XXXVI. 

Oh  why  do  we  sever,  and  bound  to  the  fray, 
And  spurn  contentment  and  court  dismay! 
We  buckle  in  pleasure ;  we  buckle  on  pain ; 
We  tighten  the  sinews  that  tingle  and  strain ; 
We  wrench  at  the  nerve's  frail  fibers  until 
We  have  snapped  the  tenderest  cord  with  our 

skill, 

Till  no  matter  what  may  touch  the  strings 
No  note  of  harmony  longer  rings. 
We  are  off  in  the  dark,  down,  down  for  boons 
Where   never   come    suns,    where   never   come 

moons. 

Nay,  that  is  not  half  of  the  woe,  not  half; 
We  lie  to  our  nature;  we  twit  and  we  laugh; 

We  dare 
To  jeer  of  a  love  that  was  ours, 

We  dare,  yet  there 
Through  thorns  and  tares  are  living  the  flowers ! 

XXXVII. 

Unhelpt  by  any,  what  power  can  save 
The  lonely  spirit  that  earth  would  enslave? 

Aface  that  test 

That  ever  awaits  to  waylay  the  best, 
Shall  one,  when  the   world 
17 


258  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

Asserts  control, 

Forget  the  soul? 

With  every  flag  of  a  high  cause  furl'd 
Give  up  his  fight  for  virtue  and  truth, 
And  become  a  man  of  the  world,  forsooth?— 
Ay,  ay,  a  coward,  who  cringed  and  bow'd, 
And  has  grown  content  to  court  the  crowd? — 
A  mountebank  who,  in  storm  or  calm, 
Turns  up  or  down  his  willing  palm 
For  a  pittance  from  snobs  that  he  thinks  to 

please 
With  a  sneer  for  those  and  a  smile  for  these  ? 


XXXVIII. 

Full  many  are  paths  where  life  can  guide  us. 
Whichever  we  take  from  some  they  divide  us. 
Wherever  we  go,  and  follow  men  not, 
No  slight  of  their  leading  is  ever  forgot ; 

The  best  of  our  deeds  is  quoted  as  bad ; 
Once  John  had  a  devil ;  once  Christ  was  a  sot. 

Our  toil — what  of  it? — is  lonely  and  sad. 
But  God  made  us  all,  in  spite  of  the  throng 
Who  deem  us,  if  not  like  themselves,  made  wrong. 
God  rules :  then  perchance  we  are  wiser  for  deeds 
That  learn  from  feelings  as  much  as  from  creeds, 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  259 

When  taught  thro'  the  injuring  zeal  of  our  race 
That  gentleness  shows  a  growth  in  grace; 
When  taught  with  Him,  whose  patience  mild 
Sigh'd  only  to  point  the  man  to  the  child. 

XXXIX. 

When  the  world  began, 

What  gave  it  light 

Was  the  touch  of  love's  electric  might. 
That  touch  still  brings,  in  the  heavenly  plan, 
The  spark  of  the  spirit  that  makes  man  man. 
His  life  all  starts  in  a  flash  of  light, 
A  gleam  of  glory,  blessed  and  bright, 
The  while  within  him  is  lighted  a  fire 
Where  burns  forever  the  soul's  desire; 
And  all  he  owns  that  gives  him  worth 
Is  that  inward  glow  that  shines  for  earth, 
And  shows  the  love  that  gave  it  birth. 

XL. 

Let  husband  and  wife 

Be  parted  in  strife; 

Or  indifference  worse,  like  a  wedge,  be  driven 
Dividing  the  two  whose  vows  were  given 

The  one  to  the  other ; 


260  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

Still,  still,  how  oft,  as  the  years  go  by, 
A  feeble  voice  and  a  helpless  cry 
May,  far  from  the  depths  of  the  soul,  conjure 
The  LOVE  OF  THE  PARENT,  and  sweetly  assure 
The  father  and  mother 

That  none  are  alone 

But  a  part  of  life's  whole, 

Whom  love,  when  shown, 
Hath  joined  in  soul. 

XLI. 

The  touch  of  the  tenderest  hands, 

Where  lives  were  rent  in  twain, 
May  weld  again  with  the  sturdiest  bands 

The  broken  links  of  love's  dear  chain. 
All  filled  with  a  father's  pride, 
The  groom  again  has  a  bride, 
And  thrilled  by  the  hope  in  store 
The  bride  has  a  groom  once  more. 

XLII. 

Behold  in  the  parent  the  world's  first  priest, 
To  tender,  till  childhood's  wants  have  ceast, 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  261 

The  flickering  fires 
That  fall  and  rise  in  rash  desires ; 

To  soothe  and  assuage, 
In  a  body  that  thirsts  and  soul  that  a.spires, 
The  wishes  of  youth  with  the  wisdom  of  age; 

To  kneel  or  to  stand 

With  a  mission  more  grand 
Than  any  but  His  whose  touch  divine 
First  lit  the  flame  on  the  human  shrine, 
Then  left  it  alone  where  all  men  try 
To  fan  its  burning  or  find  it  die. 

XLIII. 

And  what  are  the  laws  for  word  or  deed 
Of  the  priest  whose  ministry  all  will  heed  ? 
Oh,  what  but  laws  of  that  in  the  soul 
Which  starts  the  life  that  the  laws  control  ? 
Ah  me,  if  to  love  we  owe  life's  giving, 
It  must  be  love  that  rules  right  living! 
If  thought  be  that  which  has  gone  astray, 
Then  love  must  lead  to  the  wiser  way. 
No  fighting  of  error  by  force  does  aught 
But  change  the  statement  not  the  thought. 

To  ponder  and  halt 

Are  seldom  all  fault ; 


262  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

A  natural  smile 

Has  in  it  no  guile; 
But  many  a  false  array  of  zeal 
Has   frightened   from   frankness,   and   so   from 

weal; 

And  many  a  blast  of  pious  hate 
Been  blown  by  the  devil  to  train  his  mate. 

XLIV. 

If  deeds  go  astray,  no  force  men  know 
Can  check  what  nature  has  made  to  flow. 
If  wrong  attract,  and  right  estrange, 
Then  love  must  enter,  and  subtly  change 
What  courses  forth  from  the  soul  below. 
Oh,  nothing  of  good  can  life  secure 
Save  when  the  springs  of  life  are  pure ! 

When  this  they  be, 
Their  earliest  vent, 

As  mad  and  free 
As  a  mount's  cascade,  may  all  seem  spent 

In  dashing  away 

To  spatter  and  spray, 

But  yet  may  go 

In  an  onward  flow 

To  flood  wide  valleys  where  buds  are  elate, 
And  fruit  is  forming,  and  harvests  wait. 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  263 

XLV. 

How  early,  alas,  do  the  sheltering  walls 
Of  the  home  reecho  the  world's  loud  calls! 

No  more,  at  the  start, 

Than  the  note  of  a  playfellow's  drum  or  fife, 
Anon,  from  field,  or  haven,  or  mart, 
Is  heard 
A  word 

From  messmate,  partner,  sweetheart,  wife, 
And  the  ward  that  was  has  left  for  life. 

XLVI. 

'T  is  well  when  two  who  love  must  sever 

If  neither  be  taken  from  earth  forever. 

'T  is  well  for  those  of  a  ward  bereft 

If  hope  of  helping  him  still  be  left. 

How  sad  when  the  one  we  had  led  by  the  hand 

Who  had  looked  to  us  for  every  demand 

Of  body  or  soul  has  gone  to  the  grave, 

And  we  must  live,  not  die  as  we  crave, 

But  watch  him  pass  to  the  sunless  gloom 

Beyond  that  mile-stone  mark  of  the  tomb, 

And,  led  by  those  whom  never  he  knew, 

Go  journeying  on  the  darkness  through, 


264  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

As  all  alone 

He  makes  his  quest 
For  a  home  to  own 

In  the  land  of  the  best ! 


XLVII. 

When  children  have  grown  and  bear  no  trace 
Of  that  which  charmed  in  the  childhood-face, 
How  well  for  the  parent  whose  love  but  sought 
For  the   growth   of  their   spirits  in   love  and 
thought ! 

How  blest  is  their  lot 
Whose  parting  means  not 
A  parting  of  soul!     How  blest  is  the  mother 

Whose  boy  is  her  lover ! 

How  blest  is  the  father  who  seems  but  a  brother! 
How  blest  all  the  household  who  all  discover 
That  even  a  babe's  life  just  begun 
Has  a  heart  and  a  head  that  must  be  won  ; 
That  the  youngest  will  with  a  wish  has  rights 

For  all  to  respect ! 
Ah,  what  is  there  human  that  nature  slights, 

And  what  in  life  that  love  can  neglect ! 
The  petty  desire  of  the  tenderest  tone 
To  God  is  as  great  and  as  dear  as  one's  own. 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  265 

XLVIIL 

Oh,  would  that  to  love  one's  child  and  kind 
And,  no  matter  how  men  differ  in  mind, 
To  give  to  each  a  right  to  bear 

His  own  soul  where 

The  spirit  within  him  and  world  outside 
And  God  in  both  essay  to  guide, — 
Oh,  would  that  these  could  insure  for  each 
That  soul-communion  that  all  would  reach ! 
But  no ;  whoever  would  seek  high  aims 
Must  oft  forego  all  lower  claims. 

Not  a  few  there  are 

Move  on  so  far 

That  never  a  man 

Helps  on  their  plan, 

Nor  a  confidant's  voice 

Confirms  their  choice. 

There  are  years  for  them,  when  the  loveliest  face 
Seems  only  a  framing  wherein  to  trace 
A  part  of  an  interest  felt  in  the  race. 

But  oh, 

Let  us  believe  they  grow, 
The  farther  that  thus  they  leave  behind 
The  common  paths  of  all  mankind, 
The  higher  the  sound  of  their  spirit's  call, 
If  the  less  to  one,  the  more  to  all. 


266  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

XLIX. 

No  search  for  the  truth  with  a  willing  mind 
Is  a  search  for  what  one  is  willing  to  find, 
But  a  search  for  the  willing  of  all  mankind. 
Who  seek  but  this,  though  many  may  leave  them 
And  loss  of  all  in  the  home  may  grieve  them, 
At  last  may  slowly  learn  to  trace 
Fair  traits  of  the  spirit  in  each  new  face ; 
And  with   LOVE   OF  THE   FELLOWMAN,  turning 

from  none, 

Come,  at  last,  to  find  earth's  family  one. 
In  the  current  of  life,  wherever  it  rolls, 
Like  drops  in  the  sea  are  our  separate  souls ; 
And  the  wind  and  the  wave  of  the  stormy  weather 
That  dash  them  apart  may  dash  them  together, 

For  none  are  alone 

But  a  part  of  life's  whole, 

Whom  love,  when  shown, 
Hath  joined  in  soul. 

L. 

Oh,  why  should  a  mortal  from  mortal  part! 
No  beauty  was  ever  revealed  in  art 
Where  rhythm  and  tone  or  color  and  line 
Did  not  combine ; 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  267 

And  beauty  of  life  was  never  one's  own 
Who,  when  he  had  sought  it,  sought  it  alone. 


LI. 


The  world  is  a  ship  that  sails  through  space ; 

And  men  are  voyagers  journeying  where 
One  destiny  waits  for  all  the  race, 

One  common  port  for  joy  or  care. 
Why  not,  like  travelers,  launched  at  sea, 

Join  hands  and  hearts,  and,  in  every  way, 
If  heaven  be  love,  wherever  we  be, 

Begin  the  heaven  we  seek  to-day? 

LII. 

Alas  for  the  will  of  which  men  boast, 
We  all  may  lose  what  blesses  us  most! 

No  wonder  of  old 

The  world  was  told 

That  the  first  of  our  race  with  thought  or  voice 
Broke  loose  from  the  cords  that  bound  his  choice, 
His  earliest  cry:  "The  brave  have  deserts. 

Let  the  tree  be  our  quest. 
In  its  fruit  is  food 

That  is  more  than  a  test. 

The  will  that  asserts 


268  LOVE  AND  LIEE. 

Its  right  to  command, 
And  calls  up  the  good 

And  the  evil,  shall  stand 

The  equal  of  God — for  whose  wrath  who  cares? 
All  hail  to  a  heaven  for  him  who  dares! " 
Alas  for  the  finite  with  strength  so  slight ! 
The  equal  of  God  must  have  infinite  might. 

LIII. 

Some  more,  some  less,  with  little  to  love, 
We  all  to  the  sky  oft  leave  the  dove. 
We  delve  away  in  the  depth  of  our  trade ; 
And  all  get  dusty  before  well  paid. 
Some  like  the  dust ;  some  mourn  its  need ; 
And  some  are  only  intent  to  succeed. 
Too  may  grow  prostitutes,  hugging  to  all, 
Good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  beauty  or  scall, 
Till  all  wishes  that  worth  would  have  kept 
Die  out  of  the  man  unwept. 
No  pride  or  shame  for  himself  or  his  kind 

Brings  up  to  the  cheek  one  blush. 

Whatever  is  there  is  a  counterfeit  flush,— 
Mere  paint  on  the  surface  of  sham  behind. 

LIV. 

There  are  times  when  the  vilest  of  men  disguises 
His  foulness  in  forms  that  love  most  prizes ; 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  269 

But  alas!  his  gracious  and  graceful  gait 
The  vilest  of  men  takes  on  too  late. 
It  never  appears  like  a  natural  trait. 
Nor  long,  I  deem,  will  his  mien  cajole 

Those  finding  the  whole 
Of  the  sweet  in  his  coating  and  not    in   the 

soul. 

Who  tastes  that  dainty,  alas,  but  gnashes 
At  apples  of  Sodom !  — he  bites  into  ashes. 
As  well  pursue  a  will-o'wisp's  flare!  — 
His  fire  of  devotion  is  all  in  the  air. 
As  well  touch  a  carcass!— those  pulsings  avow'd 
Are   worms    that   go  crawling   round  under  a 

shroud. 

No  soul  is  within  him  our  soul  to  accost. 
His  might,  not  right,  of  repentance  is  lost. 
The  glut  of  the  senses,  like  vultures  above 
A  life  that  is  dead,  leaves  nothing  to  love. 


LV. 


Sad,  sad,  indeed,  is  the  lot  of  those 

Whom  no  one  mourns  when  their  coffins  close. 

How  lone,  when  the  robes  of  earth-life  fall, 

Are  spirits  that  hear  no  welcoming  call ; 

Are  spirits  that  see  no  smile  of  delight, 

But,  flying  in  shame  from  all  things  bright, 


270  LOVE*  AND  LIFE. 

And,  hiding  in  horror  themselves  have  made, 
Live  ever  in  sunshine  and  know  but  shade, 

As  all  alone 

They  make  their  quest 
For  a  home  to  own 

In  the  land  of  the  best  ! 

LVI. 

But  even  with  sin 

May  rescue  begin, 

And  out  of  a  fall 

Come  the  safety  of  all, — 
Come  the  knowledge  of  good  and  as  well  as  of 

bad, 
With  the  knowledge  of  ill  from  the  shade  of  the 

sad, 

The  knowledge  of  faith  which  alone  can  unite 
A  soul  to  the  Infinite  source  of  light. 

LVII. 

It  must  have  been  in  the  years  gone  long 
When   the  world   was  young,   and   men   went 

wrong, 

That  love  it  was  parted  them  all,  and  was  able 
To  hinder  earth's  ill  by  a  flood  or  a  Babel, — 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  271 

To  make  life's  disciplined  right  succeed 
Through  the  law  of  the  Persian  and  lance  of 

the  Mede; 
And  where  truth  moved  on,  tho'  few  might  know 

it, 
To  rule  by  the  meek  and  to  lead  by  the  poet 

LVIII. 

If  ever  the  mind  to  faith  be  brought, 
Is  it  love  that  shall  rule  the  inward  thought  ? 
Is  it  love  that  shall  rule  the  outward  life 
And  crown  both  source  and  sum  of  strife  ?  — 
Is  it  only  that  which  springs  from  the  heart 

That  can  ever  impart 
What  fills  the  veins  with  vigor  infused 
And  thrills  the  limbs  with  strength  to  be  used? 
Is  it  only  this  that  can  ever  fulfill 
The  way  of  the  world's  Creator's  will, 

And  thus  create 

That  heavenly  state 
For  which  men  work  the  while  they  wait  ? 

LIX. 

What  bliss,  when  gazing,  dazed  and  dim, 
Down  through  the  depths  of  mystery 
From  which  creation's  wonders  brim, 
To  dream  that  all  evolves  above 


272  LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

A  source  that  is  ever  the  LOVE  OF  LOVE !— 
Whose  rule  is  a  rule  of  sympathy, 
Whose  law  is  a  law  of  liberty, 

Whose  home  of  union 

A  holy  communion 

Where  none  are  alone 
But  a  part  of  life's  whole, 

Whom  love,  when  shown, 
Hath  joined  in  soul ! 

LX. 

Life  is  a  mystery,  mystery-bound. 
Above  or  about  us  no  rest  is  found ; 
But,  center 'd  in  every  cycling  change, 
If  one  hope  draw  us,  wherever  we  range, 
Then  must  it  be  that  the  soul  inclined 
To  merely  an  earthly  love  must  find 

With  each  new  light 

That  cheers  the  sight 
The  shaft  of  a  corridor  stretched  afar 
To  where  the  glories  of  all  love  are,— 
A  shaft  to  whiten  and  brighten  the  way 
To  a  hall  and  home  where  ends  the  day, 
And  heaven  and  earth,  life's  groom  and  bride, 
Shall  gather  their  children,  trained  and  tried, 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  273 

And  those  that  have  learned 

What  faith  has  earned, 
Shall  sleep  the  slumber  of  all  the  blest 
And  dream  the  dreams  of  an  endless  rest. 


18 


SONNETS. 


275 


THE  LEADER. 

HTHE  wind  swept  toward  him,  and  the  sunlight 

glanced 

From  his  bright  armor,  but  the  smoke  and  dust 
Hid  all  his  comrades  in  a  train  august 
Trailed  from  him,  as  in  splendor  he  advanced. 
We  deemed  him  leader,  yet  he  merely  chanced 
To  be  where  all  things  round  him  could  adjust 
To  his  position  wind  and  sun,  and  thrust 
On  him  a  prominence  naught  else  enhanced. 
Oh  blame  not  wind  or  sun,  nor  envy  him! 
What  though  the  world  too  highly  rate  his  worth  ? 
Who,  who,  for  this,  would  choose  a  role  so  mean, 
So  distant  from  the  clouds  that  always  dim 
The  central  fight  ?  — It  is  one  law  of  earth 
That  godlike  leaders  work,  like  God,  unseen. 


THE  SOLITARY  SINGER. 

\1 7HIRRED  like  the  moulting  wings  of  some 

*  "      vast  swan, 

The    snow-blast   broods    above   the   landscape 
drear ; 

277 


278  SONNETS. 

But  through  the  wild  wind  shivers,   high  and 

clear, 

The  call  of  one  lone  bird  that  sings  anon. 
Sing  on,  thou  child  of  warmth  and  light,  sing  on ! 
I  know  thy  loneliness,  I  know  thy  cheer. 
Thy  call  will  never  bring  one  comrade  near, 
Nor  make  the  world  about  less  chill  and  wan. 
But,  oh,  no  tempest  can  outblow,  sweet  bird, 
Those  drafts  thine  ardent  spirit  draws  to  bring 
The  breath  of  heaven  to  fill  thy  trembling  breast, 
So  thrilled  to  voice  the  world's  Creator's  word! 
Whom  God  inspires,  though  they  unheeded  sing, 
May  be  through  mere  expression  wholly  blest. 


STAKING  ALL. 

BETTER  to  stake  one's  all  on  some  high  cause 
And  lose,  than  never  know  the  spirit's  thrill 
When  gates  of  heaven  are  seen,  past  mortal  ill, 
Though  light  that  bursts  from  them  at   once 

withdraws. 

'T  is  not  the  accent  of  this  world's  applause 
That  marks  the  rhythm  of  the  songs  that  fill 
Heaven's  vault,  and,  with  their  sweetness,  well- 
nigh  still 
The  wings  of  angels,  tempted  then  to  pause. 


OBSCURITY.  279 

Things  viewed  or  heard  can  bring  us  bliss  alone 
When,  moved  to  pass  beyond  each  earthly  wall, 
And  borne  to  hights  mere  feet  have  never  trod, 
We  reach  a  region  far  above  our  own, 
Where  all  souls  live  for  one  and  one  for  all, 
And  each  finds  full  companionship  with  God. 


OBSCURITY. 

DEEM  not  thyself  a  slave  because  assigned 
To  small  obscurity  where  few  can  view 

Thy  steadfast  industry,  thy  purpose  true, 

Thy  sacrifice  that  seems  all  undivined. 

The  feet  that  tread  the  treadmill  no  more  bind 

The  spirit  to  their  petty  task,  than  do 

Our    brains    bind    thought  whose    words,   by 
working  through, 

Not  in,  this  mortal  framework,  lead  their  kind. 

Full  many  a  blaze-mailed  knight  men's  cheers 
allure 

To  wrong  by  which  mere  groundling-praise  is 
won; 

While  serfs,  though  soil-stained,  keep  life's  re 
cord  pure 

Because  their  dust-hid  deeds  are  wrought  for 
none 


280  SONNETS. 

Save  One  for  whom  no  life  is  too  obscure 
To  show  the  spirit  in  which  work  is  done. 


INFLUENCE. 

OH,  for  the  hope  that  once  inspired  my  tongue 
Ere   life  had  known  of  all  these  weary 

years, — 
Sad    nights   whose    dreams   were   launched   in 

silent  tears, 
And  sadder  days  whose  deeds  to  wreck  were 

flung! 

How  nobler  had  my  purpose  died  when  young, 
Not  numbed  by  blows,  and  not  abashed  by 

jeers, 

Nor  hounded  by  a  world  of  clubs  and  spears 
To  make  faith  fly  to  cover,  cowed  and  stung ! 
Yet    why  judge  influence  by  what  most  men 

prize? 

Must  that  which  leads  the  spirit  have  recourse 
To  what  attracts  to  station,  or  to  guise? 
Naught  draws  life  heavenward   like  the  sun 
light's  force. 

But  sunlight  never  blest  one  man  with  eyes 
Lured  but  to  gaze  upon  its  blinding  source. 


THE  FINAL  VERDICT.  281 

THE  FINAL  VERDICT. 

ACCEPT  men's   judgment    of    my  work?  — 
Not  one 

Knows  what  I  do,  or  why.     I  will  not  heed 
Those  guessing  how  my  structure  may  succeed 
From  scaffoldings  about  it,  scarce  begun. 
I  will  not  think  with  those  who  would  let  none 
But  some  "old  master"  dictate  my  new  deed, 
As  if  a  plan  to  fit  the  future's  need 
Could  all  be  fashioned  on  what  once  was  done ! 
Deem  not  the  worthiest  art-work  wrought  by 

those 

Whose  thoughts  and  aims  are  easiest  to  find. 
Full  oft  the  purpose  that  it  subtly  shows 
Will  long  elude  the  keenest  searching  mind ; 
And,  sometimes,  not  before  this  life  shall  close 
Can  what  it  means  for  spirit  be  divined. 


THE  CHANCE  THAT  COMES  TO 
EVERY  MAN 

THE  chance  that  comes  to  every  man— the 
chance ! 

Ah,  but  it  does  not  come  to  every  man. 
The  hero  finds  a  place  not  in  his  plan, 
And,  while  he  fills  it  well,  the  lines  advance, 


282  SONNETS. 

The  bugle  calls,  the  flashing  weapons  glance ; 
The  smoke  of  conflict  hides  the  shouting  van, 
And  glory  comes;  but  he,  as  he  began, 
He  guards  the  rear, — a  slave  of  circumstance. 
The  greatest  victory  may  be  quickest  won ; 
And  they  who  happen  to  be  in  the  lead 
Are  hailed  as  leaders,  and  the  rest  as  led. 
But,  oh,  the  work,  ere  fighting  had  begun! 
The  drill!  the  foresight! — Well,  some  men  suc 
ceed, 
And  some  do  not,  and  soon  will  all  be  dead. 


HEREDITY. 

WE  know  not  whence  came  manhood ;  but 
we  know 

Whence  came  the  man, — from  unfulfilled  de 
sire 
When  springs  that  welled  from  body  quenched 

the  fire 

That  burned  to  fuse  in  one  two  souls  aglow. 
Embodiment  of  wish,  on  earth  below, 
For  union  which  no  earth-forms  can  acquire, 
Man  is  a  spirit,  aimed  for  regions  higher, 
Entrapped  and  entrailed  in  a  world  of  woe. 


UNCONSCIOUS  CHARM.  283 

What  wonder  if  he  wander  on  and  on 
Through  ways  that  bring  no  respite  and  no  rest  ? 
What  wonder  if  no  crown  that  shines  upon 
His  brow  can  ever  sate  ambition's  quest? 
What  wonder  if  death  only  end,  anon, 
A  strife  that  never  one  deems  wholly  blest? 


UNCONSCIOUS  CHARM. 

T   TNCONSCIOUS   of  their  charm,  the  wind- 

U      swayed  trees 

Their  welcomes  wave ;  and  hills  with  flower-lined 

ways 
Rise  dawn-like,  and,  bedimmed    with  morning 

haze 

Like  incense  visible,  make  sweet  the  breeze. 
And,  all  unconscious  of  their  charm  as  these, 
The  fair,  sweet  children  pass  me  in  their  plays, 
Nor  dream  that  seeing  them  one  joy  conveys 
To  me  whom  they  feel  no  desire  to  please. 
Ah,  thus  unconscious,  must  each  human  will 
Inspire  enchantment  in  a  fellow-soul? 
Vain  then  to  hope  that  our  mere  toil  or  skill 
Can  gain  our  life  or  art  its  lordliest  role. 
The  spirit's  touch  that  stirs  the  spirit's  thrill 
Starts  in  a  source  too  deep  for  man's  control. 


284  SONNETS. 

IN  THE  ART-MUSEUM. 

FAR  in  the  dome  the  limnered  angels  poise 
Above  high  cliffs  of  columns;  while,  below, 
The  tiles  gleam  like  a  sunset-lake  aglow 
When  with  each  wavelet  some  new  sunbeam  toys. 
Now  from  without  a  troop  of  loud-heeled  boys 
And   shrill- voiced   girls   come   bounding,   then, 

more  slow, 

Proceed  on  tiptoe,  whispering  as  they  go, 
Their  whole  demean  the  ghost  of  former  noise. 
No  temple  this,  yet  sacred  none  the  less 
Through    art,    the   handcraft   that   transcribes 

man's  best 

In  feeling,  thought,  and  skill,  the  wage  of  duty. 
Ah,  well  man's  best  may  make  this  earth  seem 

blest! 

The  dim- veiled  beauty  of  God's  holiness 
Looms  always  through  art's  holiness  of  beauty. 


THE  CLIMBER. 

FROM  youth  these  mounts  have  lured  me  on, 
until 

In  age  I  stand  amid  their  frost  and  snow; 
And    but  when  searching  back  through  vales 
below 


SENSE  AND  SOUL.  285 

Descry  what  once  inspired  my  tireless  will. 
First,  youth's  hot  fever,  then  numb  age's  chill, 
And  naught  between  them  of  enjoyment,  oh, 
Why  could  my  life's  long  effort  never  know 
Rewards  that  could  repay  my  toil  and  skill? 
Can  it  be  true  that  aims  too  grand,  too  high, 
May  miss  the  garden  sought,  where,  hour  by 

hour, 

The  fellow- workers  in  new  Edens  meet? 
Can  but  the  small  seed's  growing,  by-and-by, 
Engarland  all  one's  paths  with  leaf  and  flower, 
And  keep  the  world  he  lives  in  fresh  and  sweet  ? 


SENSE  AND  SOUL. 

LET  not  mere  earthly  forms,  however  bright, 
Keep  us  of  heaven's  high  glory  unaware. 
They  are  but  vehicles  of  life  they  bear 
Up  toward  the  portals  of  eternal  light. 
Let  no  one  take  the  lamps  men  hang  at  night 
For  stars  that  never  leave  the  upper  air ; 
Or  think  a  dawn  worth  while  comes  anywhere 
Except  where  skies  and  sunlight  bring  the  sight. 
Shame  on  the  groundling  thought  that  always 

weighs 
Against  endangered  rights  that  call  aloft 


286  SONNETS. 

Its  own  low  interests  it  would  guard  too  well. 
What  though  these  fall  like  cinders  from  the 

blaze 

Of  love  too  ardent?     Ours  are  souls  that  oft 
We  strip  for  heaven  by  flinging  sense  to  hell. 


CLASS  AND  CASTE. 

me  not  with  your  classes, — me  who 
came 

From  God,  and  common  dust!     I  will  not  don 
These  robes,  these  badges,  nay,  nor  be  whirled 

on 

Behind  the  liveries  that  high  state  proclaim. 
For  me  no  earthly  splendor  shall  outflame 
Heaven's  light,  or  that  high  realm  it  shines  upon ; 
No  earthly  station  satisfy,  anon, 
Aims  that  arrested  there  would  rest  in  shame. 
For  him  who  judges  manhood  by  its  best 
There  is  no  noblest  rank  not  won  by  soul, 
No  throne  worth  seeking  reached  on  steps  of 

sod, 

No  life  that  ever  can  seem  wholly  blest 
But  feels  itself  a  part  of  that  great  whole, 
At  one  with  which  is  being  one  with  God. 


THE  FAITH  THAT  DOUBTS.  287 

THE  FAITH  THAT  DOUBTS. 

THE  church-bell  tolls ;  the  organ  tones  begin ; 
Bright  liveries  flaunt  the  advent  of  the 

proud ; 
And,  thronged  through  aisles  in  silks  that  rustle 

loud, 

The  world  without  becomes  the  church  within. 
With  incantations  exorcising  sin, 
The  white-robed  choir  and  priests  have  marched 

and  bowed; 

And  pleas,  politely  phrased  to  please  the  crowd, 
Have  flattered  those  whose  coin  the  coffers  win. 
And  thus,  forsooth,  with  lip  and  eye  and  ear 
Men  seek  to  honor  him  whose  one  chief  call 
Was  ' '  Follow  me.  "   Were  they  to  meet  him  here, 
Could  those  whose  faith  these   outward   forms 

enthrall 

Trust  to  the  spirit  in  him,  or  revere 
The  kind  of  living  for  which  he  gave  all  ? 


BROADENING  ONE'S  OUTLOOK. 

OH,  not  the  outward  things  that  may  incite 
Give  the  true  measure  of  the  inward  aim ! 
Our  minds  are  deeper  than  our  deeds  proclaim; 
And  only  thought  can  make  them  move  aright. 


288  SONNETS. 

In  youth  all  secret  loathings  leap  to  light. 

We  hunt  for  what  has  caused  them  as  for  game, 

Blow  loud  our  horns,  and  him  they  halt   not 

blame ; 

Nor  rest  till  nothing  hostile  loom  in  sight. 
In  age,  grown  mild,  we  rather  would  not  see 
The  forms  once  fought,  we  rather  would  not 

mind 

Than  mend  the  lack  of  traits  once  highly  prized. 
Ah,  has  the  earnest  aim  then  ceased  to  be? 
Or  have  our  thought-trained  spirits  learned  to 

find 
Some  worth  in  things  that  once  we  but  despised  ? 


OUR  AFFINITY. 

IN  that  dear  sport  where  Cupid  leads  the  chase, 
Of  heavenly  light  is  framed  each  gentle  dart ; 
And  where  it  speeds,  with  photographic  art, 
It  leaves  an  image  nothing  can  efface. 
No  laws  for  merely  seed  and  soil  debase 
The  methods  used  for  love  within  the  heart. 
That  heart  responds,  before  a  sprout  can  start, 
With  flower  and  fruit  whose  growth  no  seasons 
trace. 


MY  ACTRESS.  289 

Yes,  all  through  life,  whenever  come  in  view 
Those  helping  spirits,  always  on  the  quest 
For  moods  too  like  their  own  moods  to  rebuff 
The  thought  that  is  to  their  own  thinking  true, 
To  know  our  own  twin  angel  from  the  rest, 
One  touch,  one  look,  one  accent  is  enough. 


MY  ACTRESS. 

HER  pictures,  not  herself,  affect  me  so, — 
Her   finished   photographs,   but  not   the 

plates 

Where  alchemy's  dark  conjuring  creates 
What  rises  from  the  glassy  deeps  below. 
My  life  is  loveless,  and  her  play  can  show 
That  which  I  might  have  loved,  and  so  it  mates 
And  cheers  my  soul,  the  while  lone  wish  awaits 
The  spirit-form  that  haunts  the  life  I  know. 
Real  lovers,  hand  in  hand,  may  fail  to  see 
How  she,  with  feigned  familiarities, 
Can  make  more  firm  my  faith  in  my  ideal. 
Ah,  they  wot  not  that  life  has  left  to  me 
But  dreams  of  that  which  might  be,  not  what  is; 
And,   while   no   dream  holds  her,  I   feel  them 

real. 

19 


290  SONNETS. 

THE  FIRST  FASCINATION. 

ACROSS  the  threshold  of  this  life  below, 
Oft  comes  a  form  more  sacred  than  of 

friend, 

With  which,  entranced  by  love,  we  onward  wend, 
Our  thoughts,  our  cheeks,  our  pulses  all  aglow. 
Oh,  ye  that  boast  uprightness,  do  ye  know 
How  sweet  a  tone  might  then  have  bid  it  end  ? 
Were  such   not    heard    or    heeded,    't  will    be 

kenned 

Some  day  that  some  good  angel  made  it  so. 
Thou  first  of  lovers,  when  this  life  goes  by, 
Its  lists  made  out  and  all  things  understood, 
If  right  be  ours,  what  shall  we  owe  the  touch 
Of  thy  dear  hand,  and  thy  pure  word  and  eye! 
The  saved  think  less  that  they  themselves  were 

good 
Than  that  they  were  not  tempted  overmuch. 


THE  LOST  FRIEND. 

I   WOULD  not  doubt  your  word, — nor  could 
gainsay 

The  proof  you  show  me,  blind  be  to  that  fire 
Which,  blazing  in  the  torch  of  your  desire, 
Makes  all  my  night  of  doubt  as  bright  as  day. 


FOR  A  BOOK  OF  CONTRIBUTIONS.     291 

But  side  by  side  with  him  through  all  the  way 
I  toiled  till  now ;  nor  ever  could  aspire 
To  aught  past  where  he  seemed  to  call  me  higher, 
And  lead  straight  onward,  if  I  dared  to  stray. 
Why,  we  were  like  two  arms  that  limb  one  frame, 
Two  hands  that  ply  one  work,  two  eyes  that  trace 
One  onward  path,  two  ears  that  heed  the  same 
Inciting  cry,  two  steeds  that  lead  the  race 
Yoked  to  one  car,  twin  rivals  for  one  aim,  — 
To  think  my  friend  base,  I  myself  were  base. 


FOR  A  BOOK  MADE  UP  OF  CONTRIBU 
TIONS  FROM  AUTHORS. 

OH,  not  for  wealth  or  fame  do  poets  yearn 
With  ardor  fired  to  burnish  phrase  and 

line! 

Nay,  not  for  this !     Their  fervor  would  enshrine 
In  forms  as  bright  bright  thoughts  that  in  them 

burn. 

What  luck  is  mine,  then,  freed  from  all  concern 
About  how  I  a  setting  may  design 
To  make  my  paste  another's  gem  outshine? 
My  light,  though  slight,  a  beacon's  place  may 
earn! 


29  2  SONNETS. 

Less  due  to  oil  than  to  reflectors  round 

A  wick's  weak  flicker  is  the  blaze  that  blinds. 

How  mine  should  blaze  for  you,  then,  gazing  at 

This  offering,  haloed  all  about,  ray-bound 

By  bright  reflections  of  the  brightest  minds!  — 

Art's  proof  is  in  the  setting.     Judge  by  that. 


FORD'S  GLEN, 

WILLIAMSTOWN. 

WHEN  first  I  followed  up  thy  modest  brook, 
And  left  the  northwest  road,  and  came 

on  thee, 
How  grand  thy  wood-crowned  rocks  appeared 

to  be 
Whose  high-arched  foliage  heaven's  dim  light 

forsook ! 

But  when,  years  later,  I  came  back  to  look 
On  what  so  awed,  I  stood  amazed  to  see 
How  small  and  shrunk,  when  shorn  of  every 

tree, 

Were  all  that  I  for  lofty  cliffs  mistook. 
Then,  in  my  college-town,  I  joined,  once  more, 
The  mates  I  so  had  honored  in  my  youth. 


PRINCETON   UNIVERSITY.  293 

Alas,  in  some,  no  mystery  seemed  to  lurk 
Where  bights  of  promise  had  so  loomed  of  yore ! 
Has  life  no  sphere  in  which  one  finds,  forsooth, 
No  wrong  to  nature  wrought  by  man's  mean 
work? 


PRINCETON  UNIVERSITY. 

WELL  placed,  my  Princeton,  on  the  fore 
most  range 

Where  Allegheny  uplands  first  appear 
Bent  down  to  greet  the  sea,  bent  up  to  rear 
What  walls  our  continent  of  rock  and  grange ! 
If  English  sires,  too  loyal  to  seek  change, 
Their  Kingston,  Queenston,  Princeton  founded 

here, 

It  made  no  Witherspoon  nor  Stockton  fear 
A  throne  that  dared  their  new  land's  rights 

estrange. 
Nor   now    shall  Princeton,  welcoming    to    her 

school 

The  thought  of  Europe,  find  her  own  less  bold 
Because  of  that  which  from  abroad  is  drafted. 
Let  stay  thy  "classics  " !     No  one  not  a  fool 
To  get  new  learning  need  forget  the  old ; 
And  minds,  like  fruit-trees,  bear  their  best  when 

grafted. 


294  SONNETS. 

IN  PRINCETON  CEMETERY. 

THERE  are  few  kindred  places  on  the  earth 
Where  rest  as  many  great  men  as  lie  here ; 
Or,  in  proportion,  more  men  to  revere 
Of  those   whose  learning  was   outweighed   by 

worth. 

Not  strange  then  that,  at  many  a  household- 
hearth 

And  student  desk,  our  generation  fear 
To  change  or  question  aught  these  men  held  dear ; 
As  if,  forsooth,  a  saint  could  need  new  birth! 
Yet  all  whose  learning  brings  them  fame  to  last 
Begin  by  doubting  what  earth  claims  it  knows. 
Why  should  not  their  true  follower  do  the  same? 
Think  not  the  present  can  but  phase  the  past. 
The  fire  whose  dying  brand  so  steadfast  glows 
Once  proved  its  life  through  flickerings  of  its 
.     flame. 

IN  BONAVENTURE  CEMETERY, 

SAVANNAH. 

THE  live-oak's  bending  boughs,  gray-draped 
in  moss, 

Like    mourning    sentinels,    guard    the    winding 
ways; 


THE  GRAVE  OF  GENIUS.  295 

But  under  them  each  grave  the  eye  surveys 

Is  wreathed  with   flowers  that   breezes  gently 

toss. 

Ah,  if  the  bowed  oaks  fitly  frame  our  loss, 
Beneath  them  crowd,  too,  symbols  of  the  bays 
To  crown  our  loved  ones  in  those  far,  fair  days 
That    nights   end    not    and   storms   can  never 

cross. 

Though  bodies  fail,   souls  need  not  meet  de 
feat. 

Nay,  let  our  spirits  rise  above  like  these 
Blithe  birds  that,  winged  from  out  sweet  flowery 

beds, 
Soar  up  and  sing  through  clouds  of  moss-hung 

trees, 

Sing  as  of  dreams  of  beauty,  sure  to  greet 
The  slumber  on  which  God  such  beauty  spreads. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  GENIUS. 

HPREAD  softly.     Nothing  mortal  we  revere 

1       Within  the  dwelling  that  we  stand  before. 
No  form  will  come  to  meet  us  from  the  door. 
Only  the  spirit  of  the  man  is  near. 
Only  to  spirit  do  men  ever  rear 


296  SONNETS. 

These  shafts  like  arms  uplifted  to  implore 
The  world  to  honor  those  we  see  no  more, 
But  whose  white  souls  the  white  tomb  symbols 

here. 

Ah,  what  could  ever  lead  earth's  dull  throngs  on 
To  those  bright  goals,  concealed  from  mortal 

view 

In  future  glory  for  which  good  men  plan, 
Except  some  spirit  heaven  had  shone  upon  ? 
Our  awe  for  genius  is  a  worship  due 
To  that  which  comes  from  God  and  not  from 

man. 


SONGS  AND  HYMNS. 

FROM   VARIOUS   SOURCES   PUBLISHED   AND 
NOT  PUBLISHED. 


297 


WHERE  DWELL  THE  GODS? 

WHERE  dwell  the  gods  ? 
Where  dwell  the  gods? 
Oh,  dwell  they  in  the  sky? 
Or  come  they  near  in  gloom  or  gleam 
Of  earth  or  air  or  wood  or  stream  ? 

Oh,  yes,  the  gods  are  all  on  high; 
But,  robed  in  all  that  teem  or  seem 
Where  eye  can  spy  or  fancy  fly, 
The  gods  are  always  nigh. 


How  speak  the  gods? 
How  speak  the  gods? 
In  thunder  from  the  sky? 
In  storms  that  o'er  the  cloud-banks  pour, 
Or  dash  in  waves  along  the  shore  ? 

Oh,  yes,  the  gods  are  all  on  high; 
But  not  alone  in  rush  and  roar, 

Wherever  breeze  or  breath  can  sigh 
The  gods  are  always  nigh. 
299 


300  SONGS  AND  HYMNS. 

How  touch  the  gods? 
How  touch  the  gods? 
Oh,  reach  they  from  the  sky 
Wherever  airy  fingers  brush 
The  leaves  that  throb,  the  cheeks  that  flush  ? 

Oh,  yes,  the  gods  are  all  on  high; 
But  in  the  thrills  that  fill  the  hush 
When  naught  without  is  passing  by, 
The  gods  are  always  nigh. 

Where  look  the  gods? 

Where  look  the  gods? 

In  glances  from  the  sky? 

Down  through  the  lightning's  death-dealt  blaze, 
Or  thrilling  through  the  starry  rays? 

Oh,  yes,  the  gods  are  all  on  high; 
But  in  the  looks  that  on  us  gaze 
From  out  the  love-lit  human  eye 
The  gods  are  always  nigh. 

—Written  for  "  The  Aztec  God" 


ALL  HAIL  THE  GOD! 

ALL  hail  the  god !     All  hail  and  laud 
The  god  we  now  enthrone, 
Whose  realms  extend,  all  bright  and  broad, 
Beyond  the  seas  and  stars  and  aught 


ALL  HAIL  THE  GOD!  301 

That  ears  have  heard,  or  eyes  have  sought, 

Or  hands  could  ever  own. 
All  hail  the  god !     All  hail  the  god ! 

Upon  the  man  we  call ; 
But  bright  behind  the  gaze  we  greet, 
There  gleams  a  glory  yet  to  meet 
Our  souls  beholding  past  the  gloom 
Of  toil  and  trouble,  tear  and  tomb, 

The  god  beyond  it  all. 


All  hail  the  god !     All  hail  and  laud 

The  god  we  bow  before, 
Whose  altar  fires,  while  all  are  awed, 
Are  lit  in  souls  that  flash  through  eyes 
That  light  for  heaven  itself  supplies, 

Nor  could  one  wish  for  more. 
All  hail  the  god!     All  hail  the  god! 

Upon  the  man  we  call; 
But  bright  behind  the  gaze  we  greet, 
There  gleams  a  glory  yet  to  meet 
Our  souls  beholding  past  the  gloom 
Of  toil  and  trouble,  tear  and  tomb, 

The  god  beyond  it  all. 

— Idem. 


302  SONGS  AND  HYMNS. 

OH,  NOT  WHAT  LIFE  APPEARS  TO  BE. 

OH,  not  what  life  appears  to  be, 
Is  what  in  life  is  true. 
Inveiled  behind  the  forms  we  see 
Are  things  we  cannot  view. 
What  but  the  spirit  working  through 
The  guise  men  wear  to  what  they  do 
Reveals  the  force  that,  foul  or  fair, 
Awakes  and  makes  the  nature  there? 

The  sunshine  shows  the  worth  of  suns, 

The  moisture,  of  the  shower; 
The  stream  of  rills  from  which  it  runs, 

The  fragrance,  of  the  flower; 
And,  oh,  the  spirit  when  it  springs 
Above  the  reach  of  earthly  things, 
As  fall  the  limbs  that  feed  the  shrine, 
Reveals  the  life  to  be  divine. 

—Written  for  "The  Aztec  God." 


ALL  HAIL  THE  SUN. 

ALL  hail  the  sun  that  brings  the  light, 
All  hail  the  rays  that  shower, 
And  wake  the  barren  wastes  of  night 
To  germ  and  leaf  and  flower. 


O  LIFE  DIVINE.  303 

All  hail  the  life  behind  the  sun, 

All  hail  the  gods  that  dwell 
Where  men  whose  earthly  race  is  run 

Are  borne,  and  all  is  well. 

All  hail  the  form  of  him  who  dies, 

All  hail  the  soul  that  wends 
Up  through  the  skies,  and  onward  hies. 

All  hail  the  gods,  our  friends. 

— Idem. 


O  LIFE  DIVINE. 

OLIFE  divine,  from  thee  there  springs 
All  good  that  germs  and  grows, 
Thy  Light  behind  the  sunlight  brings 
The  harvests  to  their  close. 

O  Life  divine,  thou  art  the  source 

Of  truth  within  the  soul ; 
Thou  art  the  guide  through  all  the  course 

That  leads  it  to  its  goal. 

O  Life  divine,  what  soul  succeeds 

In  aught  on  earth  but  he 
Who  moves  as  all  desires  and  deeds 

Are  lured  and  led  by  thee ! 

— Written  for  "  Columbus." 


304  SONGS  AND  HYMNS. 

O  GOD  OF  ALL  THINGS  LIVING, 

OGOD  of  all  things  living, 
Our  Sovereign,  Saviour,  Guide, 
All  gifts  are  of  Thy  giving, 
All  gains  by  Thee  supplied. 
The  stars  that  make 
High  aims  awake 
Are  but  what  Thine  eye  seest. 
The  stroke  and  stress 
That  earn  success 
Are  but  what  Thou  decreest. 
O  God  of  all  things  living, 

Our  Sovereign,  Saviour,  Guide, 
All  gifts  are  of  Thy  giving, 
All  gains  by  Thee  supplied. 

O  God,  all  good  bestowing 

On  souls  that  seek  Thy  way, 

Our  hearts,  with  joy  o'erflowing, 

Give  thanks  to  Thee  to-day. 

In  all  the  past 

Whose  blessings  last, 
Thy  presence  fills  the  story; 

And  all  the  gleams 

That  gild  our  dreams 
Obtain  from  Thee  their  glory. 


HAIL  TO  THE  HERO.  305 

O  God,  all  good  bestowing 
On  souls  that  seek  Thy  way, 

Our  hearts,  with  joy  o'erflowing, 
Give  thanks  to  Thee  to-day. 

— Written  for  "Columbus." 


HAIL  TO  THE  HERO,  HOME  FROM 
STRIFE. 

HAIL  to  the  hero,  home  from  strife, 
Pride  of  our  hearts  and  hope  of  our  life, 
Hail  to  his  glancing  crest  and  plume, 
Flashed  like  lightning  into  the  gloom. 
Hail  to  the  grit  that,  when  borne  from  view, 
Out  of  the  darkness  brought  him  through, 
Sprout  of  the  slough-pit,  bud  of  the  thorn, 

After  the  night 

The  light  of  the  morn. 

Crown  him  with  flowers  and  cull  them  bright. 
Crown  him,  the  man  of  the  land's  delight. 

Hail  to  the  hero,  home  from  strife, 
Pride  of  our  hearts  and  hope  of  our  life. 
Hail  to  the  ring  of  the  voice  that  taught 
Drumming  and  roaring  the  rhythm  of  thought. 


306  SONGS  AND  HYMNS. 

Hail  to  the  tone  that  could  change  to  a  cheer 
Groan  and  shriek  of  a  startled  fear, 
Hushing  to  rills  the  flood  that  whirred, 

Chorusing  night 

With  songs  of  the  bird. 

Shout  him  a  welcome,  and  shout  with  might, 
Shout  for  the  man  of  the  land's  delight. 

—Written  for  "Columbus." 


O  SOUL,  WHAT  EARTHLY  CROWN. 

OSOUL,  what  earthly  crown 
Is  bright  as  his  renown 
Whose  tireless  race 
Outruns  the  world's  too  halting  pace, 
To  reach,  beyond  the  things  men  heed, 
That  which  they  know  not  of,  but  need! 

0  soul,  what  man  can  be 
As  near  to  Christ  as  he 

Who  looks  to  life 

Not  first  for  fame  and  last  for  strife; 
But  shuns  no  loss  nor  pain  that  brings 
The  world  to  new  and  better  things ! 

— Idem. 


ALL  HAIL  THE  QUEEN/  307 

ALL  HAIL  THE  QUEEN! 

ALL  hail  the  Queen! 
No  thrills  can  fill  the  lover's  breast 
For  that  first  love  he  loves  the  best, 
Like  ours  that  throb  to  each  appeal 
Of  her  in  whom,  enthroned  above 
The  nation's  heart,  we  see,  we  feel 
The  symbol  of  the  sway  we  love, 
The  while  we  hail  our  Queen. 

All  hail  the  Queen! 
No  cause  can  rouse  the  soul  of  strife 
In  men  who  war  for  child  and  wife, 
Like  ours  that,  where  her  battles  be, 

Know  not  of  rest  until,  above 
The  foe  that  falls,  enthroned  we  see 

The  symbol  of  the  sway  we  love, 

The  while  we  hail  our  Queen. 

All  hail  the  Queen! 
No  loyalty  can  make  a  son 
Show  what  a  mother's  love  has  done, 
Like  ours  who  press  through  land  and  sea, 

Our  one  reward  to  find  above 
Our  gains  that  show  what  man  can  be, 

The  symbol  of  the  sway  we  love, 

The  while  we  hail  our  Queen.         — Idem. 


308  SONGS  AND  HYMNS. 

WE  LIVE  BUT  FOR  BUBBLES. 

WE  live  but   for  bubbles,  and  those  who 
know 

The  way  of  the  world  their  bubbles  will  blow. 
Ay,  all  but  whose  doings  are  fated  to  be 
No  more  than  are  drops  in  an  infinite  sea, 
Will  blow  them,  and  show  them,  till,  by  and  by, 
They  fill  and  float  to  the  air  on  high ; 
Hoho !  hoho !  and  the  world  will  thus 
Know  how  big  a  bubble  can  come  from  us. 

We  live  but  for  bubbles  that  grow  and  glow 
The  bigger  and  brighter  the  more  we  blow ; 
And,  borne  on  the  breath  of  the  breeze  around 
Wherever  the  tides  of  the  time  are  bound, 
There  is  nothing  of  earth  or  of  heaven  in  sight 
But  they  image  it  all  in  a  rainbow  light; 
Hoho !  hoho !  and  the  world  will  thus 
Know  how  bright  a  bubble  can  come  from  us. 

We  live  but  for  bubbles  a-dance  in  the  blast, 
But  who  can  tell  how  long  they  will  last  ? 
So  swell  your  cheeks,  and  puff,  and  fan, 
And  make  the  most  of  them  while  you  can, 
For  if  ever  the  breath  in  them  fail,  they  will  pop, 
And  only  be  drizzles  to  dry  as  they  drop ; 


OH,  WHO  HAS  KNOWN.  309 

Hoho !  hoho !  and  the  world  will  thus 
Be  done  with  the  bubbles  that  come  from  us. 
— Written  for  "Cecil  the  Seer." 


OH,  WHO  HAS  KNOWN. 

OH,  who  has  known  the  whole  of  light, 
That  knows  it  day  by  day, 
Where  suns  that  make  the  morning  bright, 

At  evening,  pass  away? 
Before  the  day,  beyond  the  day, 

Above  the  suns  that  roll, 
There  was  a  light,  there  waits  a  light 
That  never  leaves  the  soul. 


Oh,  who  has  weighed  the  worth  of  light 

That  gauged  it  by  the  gleam 
That  came  within  the  range  of  sight, 

And  thought  the  rest  a  dream? 
Before  that  sight,  beyond  that  sight 

And  all  that  mortals  deem, 
There  was  a  light,  there  waits  a  light, 

Where  things  are  all  they  seem. 

— Idem. 


310  SONGS  AND  HYMNS. 

TWO  SPRINGS  OF  LIFE. 

TWO  springs  of  life, — in  air  and  earth; 
Two  tides, — in  soul  and  sod; 
Two   natures, — wrought   of  breath   and   birth; 

Two  aims, — in  cloud  and  clod; — 
Oh,  where  were  worlds,  or  where  were  worth 
Without  the  two,  and  God? 

Two  movements  in  the  heaving  breast ; 

Two,  in  the  beating  heart; 
Two,  in  the  swaying  soldier's  crest; 

Two,  in  the  strokes  of  art; — 
Oh  where  in  aught  of  mortal  quest, 

Are  e'er  the  two  apart? 

Two  times  of  day, — in  gloom  and  glow; 

Two  realms — of  dream  and  deed; 
Two  seasons — bringing  sod  and  snow; 

Two  states — of  fleshed  and  freed; — 
Oh  where  is  it  that  life  would  go, 

But  through  the  two  they  lead? 

Two  frames  that  meet, — the  strong,  the  fair, 

True  love  in  both  begun; 
Two  souls  that  form  a  single  pair; 

Two  courses  both  have  run; — 


77V  THE  WORLD  OF  CARE  AND  SORROW.  3 1 1 

Oh  where  is  life  in  earth  or  air, 
And  not  with  these  at  one? 

—Written  for  ''Cecil  the  Seer" 

IN  THE  WORLD  OF  CARE  AND  SORROW. 

IN  the  world  of  care  and  sorrow 
Cloud  and  darkness  veil  the  way, 
But  in  heaven  there  waits  a  morrow 
Where  the  night  shall  turn  to  day, 
Where  the  spirit-light  in  rising, 

Yet  shall  gild  the  clouds  of  fear, 
And  the  shadows,  long  disguising, 
Lift  and  leave  the  landscape  clear. 

When  the  soul,  amid  that  glory, 

Finds  its  earthly  garments  fall, 
Harm  and  anguish  end  their  story, 

Health  and  beauty  come  to  all ; 
No  more  fleshly  chains  can  fetter 

Faith  that  longs  to  soar  above; 
None  to  duty  seems  a  debtor, 

And  the  only  law  is  love. 

There  is  ended  earthly  scheming, 
Earthly  struggle  sinks  to  sleep; 

Souls  have  passed  from  deed  to  dreaming, 
And  they  have  no  watch  to  keep; 


312  SONGS  AND  HYMNS. 

For  the  world  has  wrought  its  mission, 
And  the  wheels  of  labor  rest ; 

And  the  faithful  find  fruition, 
And  the  true  become  the  blest. 

— Written  for  "Cecil  the  Seer. 

THE  TRUMPETS  CALL  TO  ACTION. 

HPHE  trumpets  call  to  action 

I       Through  all  the  threatened  land, 
No  more  is  heard  of  faction, 
The  time  has  come  to  band. 

What  soul  can  see 
The  state  in  fear,  and  fail  to  be 
Beneath  the  flag,  enrolled  with  all 
That  heed  the  trumpet's  call? 
No  patriots  are  they  who  can  see 
The  state  in  fear  and  fail  to  be 
Beneath  the  flag,   enrolled  with  all 
That  heed  the  trumpet's  call. 

The  best  of  men  are  brothers. 

The  worst  can  be  a  foe ; 
And  not  for  self,  but  others, 

True  men  to  battle  go. 

No  longer  meek, 
Where  wrong  is  cruel,  right  is  weak, 


OH,   WHY  DO  WE  CARE?  313 

Or  aught  has  brought  the  base  to  band,— 
They  throng  to  lend  a  hand. 

No  true  men  are  they  who  can  see 
The  state  in  fear,  and  fail  to  be 
Beneath  the  flag,  enrolled  with  all 
That  heed  the  trumpet's  call. 

Who,  think  you,  live  in  story 

That  live  for  self  alone  ? 
Who  care  to  spread  his  glory 
That  cares  not  for  their  own? 

In  every  strife 

That  stirs  the  pulse  to  nobler  life, 
The  man  that  has  the  thrilling  heart, 
He  plays  the  thrilling  part. 

No  heroes  are  they  who  can  see 
The  state  in  fear,  and  fail  to  be 
Beneath  the  flag,  enrolled  with  all 
That  heed  the  trumpet's  call. 

— Idem. 


OH,  WHY  DO  WE  CARE? 

OH,  what  is  the  matter,  and  why  do  we  care 
For  an  empty,  visionless  whiff  of  air  ? 
Ah,  though  the  wind  be  nothing  to  see, 
It  bends  and  batters  and  breaks  the  tree ; 


314  SONGS  AND  HYMNS. 

And  oh,  we  know  a  breeze  that  serves 

To  shock  and  shiver  and  shatter  the  nerves, 

And  snuff  the  light  of  life  with  a  breath; 

It  has  nothing  to  see,  but  it  ends  in  death — 

Ho  ho,  ho  ho, 

That  blow,  blow,  blow,  blow,  blow ! 

Oh,  what  is  the  matter,  and  why  do  we  care 

For  a  silent  sight  of  the  sunshine  there  ? 

Ah,  though  no  sound  may  rouse  the  ear, 

The  bud  and  blossom  of  spring  are  here; 

And  oh,  we  know  a  sight  so  bright 

It  cheers  the  world  like  heavenly  light, 

Till  far  away  fly  doubt  and  strife ; 

It  has  nothing  to  hear,  but  it  lures  to  life — 

High  high,  high  high, 

That  eye,  eye,  eye,  eye,  eye ! 

—Written  for  "  The  Ranch  Girl. " 


AH,  BOYS,  WHEN  WE  FILL  OUR 
GLASSES. 

AH,  boys,  when  we  fill  our  glasses, 
We  may  drink  to  whatever  else  passes, 
But  whenever  we  quaff 
To  life's  better  half, 
We  must  always  drink  to  the  lasses. 


OUR  LIVES  ARE  VAPORS.  315 

You  may  journey  to  Nice  or  to  Paris 
For  a  cough  that  a  song  may  embarrass ; 

But  the  air  of  the  West 

Is  the  freshest  and  best; 
And  the  sweetest,  the  air  of  its  heiress. 

— Idem. 


OUR  LIVES  ARE  VAPORS. 

OUR  lives  are  vapors  forced  to  roam, 
Of  sun  and  storm  the  prey; 
But  cling  like  mists,  with  hills  their  home, 
Together  while  they  may. 

Chorus:    And,  friends,  whate'er  may  come  to  you, 

Join  hand  and  voice  with  mine, 
And  swear  the  love  that  here  we  knew 
Shall  never  know  decline. 

Our  lives  are  vapors,  whirled  through  skies, 
Where  some  by  storms  are  torn, 

And  some  the  sunlight  glorifies, 
And  some  to  heaven  are  borne. 

Chorus:     But,   friends,   whate'er  may  come  to 
you,  etc. 


316  SONGS  AND  HYMNS. 

Our  lives  are  vapors  wrecked  and  lost. 

None  sail  their  journey  through. 
Ere  long  behind  some  blow  that  tost, 

Will  naught  be  left  but  blue. 

Chorus:     But,  friends,  what  e'er  may  come  to 
you,  etc. 

—Written  for  "The  Ranch  Girl" 


MONEY  AND  MAN. 

THE  time  will  come  when  money 
Will  pay  what  work  is  worth; 
Will  buy  your  task,  and  none  will  ask 

Your  station  or  your  birth. 
The  right  to  earnings  will  be  won 
By  what  a  man  himself  has  done. 

Oh!— 

The  time  will  come  when  money 
Will  pay  what  work  is  worth. 


The  time  will  come  when  money 
Will  not  buy  one  a  crown — 

To  lift  a  snob  above  the  mob 
And  keep  all  others  down. 


JUST  THE  THING  HE  THINKS.        317 

For  men,  to  inward  worth  alert, 
Will  only  bow  to  true  desert. 
Oh!— 

The  time  will  come  when  money 
Will  not  buy  one  a  crown. 

The  time  will  come  when  money 
Will  not  seem  more  than  man ; 

But  hearts  will  yearn  with  all  they  earn 
To  help  all  men  they  can. 

In  rolls  of  honor  in  that  state, 

Great  love  alone  will  make  men  great. 
Oh!— 

The  time  will  come  when  money 
Will  not  seem  more  than  man. 

— Written  for  "  The  Little  Twin  Tramps." 


JUST  THE  THING  HE  THINKS. 

THE  sun  gives  everything  its  light ; 
The  mind  gives  everything  its  thought; 
And  what  we  deem  is  dark  or  bright, 

Reflects  but  what  ourselves  have  brought. 
That  friend,  whose  own  extorting  clinks 

In  hands  he  holds  to  help  the  world ; 
That  foe,  from  whom  each  neighbor  shrinks 


318  SONGS  AND  HYMNS. 

Though  not  returning  blows  he  hurled, — 
Is  just  the  thing  he  thinks. 

A  college  student  with  a  bang, 

Who  struts  with  open  mouth  about, 
And  thinks,  by  slinging  slaps  of  slang, 

His  tongue  can  lick  all  censure  out ; 
Whose  mouth,  if  busied  not  with  drinks, 

When  asked  what  he  has  learned  at  school, 
Is  kept  as  closed  as  if  a  sphynx, 

For  fear  to  show  himself  a  fool, — 
Is  just  the  thing  he  thinks.  / 

A  belle,  made  so  by  wiggling  waist 

And  tongue  that  never  ceases  wagging, 
Who  wanted  once  to  wed  in  haste 

But  long  has  found  all  lovers  lagging, 
And  powders  now,  and  paints  and  prinks, 

And  stuffs  the  thin  and  straps  the  stout, 
For  fear,  through  ways  that  ape  a  minx, 

The  world,  alas,  may  find  her  out, — 
Is  just  the  thing  she  thinks. 

A  man  who  lost  a  former  bride 

And  mourns  her  memory  on  his  hat, 

A  hat  he  gently  waves  aside 

That  he  may  gaze  more  ladies  at, 


JUST  THE  THING  HE  THINKS.        319 

The  while  for  each  he  dives  yet  shrinks 

For  fear  all  love  that  he  can  vow 
Behind  that  eye  that  winks  and  blinks 

Is  hardly  worth  the  having  now, — 
Is  just  the  thing  he  thinks. 

The  man  who  boasts  a  family  tree, 

And  great  grandpas  that  came  and  went, 
Which  proves  to  all,  the  more  they  see, 

How  great  has  been  his  own  descent; 
And  who  from  self-made  people  shrinks 

That  now  do  what  his  grandpas  did, 
Lest  other  men  may  see  the  links 

That  bind  to  what  he  wishes  hid, — 
Is  just  the  thing  he  thinks. 

The  gallery-bird  with  flying  sleeves 

That  tempt  us  here  to  shoot  or  shoo; 
The  balcony-belle  who  half  believes 

All  music  lures  a  beau  to  woo ; 
The  dear  bald  head  that  nods  and  blinks ; 

And  each  whose  clapping  bids  us  folks 
Repeat  our  notes  like  bobolinks 

Lest  some  may  think  he  miss'd  our  jokes, — 
Is  just  the  thing  he  thinks. 

—  Written  jor  ''The  Little  Twin  Tramps" 


320  SONGS  AND  HYMNS. 

IT  DOES  NOT  SEEM  FREE  TO  ME. 

OH  you  who  prate  of  freedom, 
Say,  are  you  fools  or  knaves? — 
Of  all  the  things  men  like  the  best, 

The  first  is  being  slaves. 
Who  ever  yet  bought  coat  or  hat, 

Or  wore  a  gown  or  bustle, 
That  dared  defy  the  style  in  that 

Which  made  the  parlor  rustle? 
Though  it  may  clothe  our  dearest  friend, 
Outside  our  own  set,  in  the  end, 

The  fashionless  we  hustle. 
Oh,  you  may  call  that  being  free, 
But  it  does  not  seem  free  to  me. 

Oh  you  who  prate  of  freedom, 

You  send  your  babes  to  schools, 
And  just  when  old  enough  to  work, 

You  turn  them  all  to  tools; 
And  they,  lest  when,  left  free  from  strife, 

Mere  rest  should  bring  them  pleasure, 
Are  not  content,  till  wedded  life 

Is  girt  to  slavery's  measure; 
Then,  that  more  tyrants  may  be  grown, 
Each  stocks  a  nursery  of  his  own, 

And  calls  each  sprout  a  treasure: — 


IT  DOES  NOT  SEEM  FREE  TO  ME.    321 

Oh,  you  may  call  that  being  free, 
But  it  does  not  seem  free  to  me. 

Oh  you  who  prate  of  freedom, 

Work  once  was  free  for  each. 
But  comes  the  boss — his  voice  is  heard, 

And  work  is  past  your  reach. 
More  cash  you  want.     Your  savings  go 

To  pay  another's  bill. 
And  peace  you  want.     Before  you  know 

You  vow,  perchance,  to  kill. 
You  once  had  pay.     On  freedom  bent, 
You  serve  a  chief,  nor  get  a  cent, 

Who  works  you  at  his  will : — 
Oh,  you  may  call  that  being  free, 
But  it  does  not  seem  free  to  me. 

Oh  you  who  prate  of  freedom, 

In  home,  in  state,  in  church, 
If  any  realm  could  grant  your  wish, 

It  would  not  end  your  search. 
The  place  where  most  men  like  to  be 

Is  where  with  most  they  mingle ; 
And  such  a  place  none  ever  see 

So  long  as  they  keep  single; 
Nay,  those,  in  all  they  care  about, 
Who  always  leave  their  neighbors  out, 

Find  life  not  worth  this  jingle : — 


322  SONGS  AND  HYMNS. 

Oh,  you  may  call  that  being  free, 
But  it  does  not  seem  free  to  me. 
—Written  for  "The  Little  Twin  Tramps.'1 


A  FAIRY  SONG. 

TO-NIGHT,  to-night,  my  fairies  white, 
The  fair  sweet  air  we  sail. 
But  first  a  tune  to  tease  the  moon 

That  tempts  us  toward  the  vale : — 
Who  cares  to  go  where  roses  glow 

In  sheen  the  moonlight  sheds, 
And  globes  of  dew  are  sparkling  through 

The  tent  the  spider  spreads  ? 
Your  moonstruck  fay  may  dance  away 
And  crush  the  rose-leaves  all  to  hay — 

Who  cares  ? — I  don't ! — Do  you  ? 

But  note  you  there  that  maiden  fair — 

Ha,  ha,  a  dainty  bit ! 
She  dreams  a  dream  of  love  I  deem. — 

Queen  Mab  's  a  wicked  wit! 
Come,  come,  a  jump ;  and  down  we  '11  thump ; 

And  dance  about  her  heart. 
'T  will  beat  and  beat — aha,  how  sweet 

The  thrills  we  there  shall  start! 


A  FAIRY  SONG.  323 

We  11  tickle  her  neck,  and  tickle  her  toes, 
And  tickle  her  little  lips  under  her  nose — 
Who  cares? — I  don't! — Do  you? 

And  then  we  '11  huff  that  mourner  gruff, 

Till  he  unknits  his  brow. 
We  '11  whiz  and  whiz  about  his  phiz, 

And  pinch  his  lips,  I  vow; 
Then  hide  and  seek  in  hair  so  sleek, 

And  down  each  wrinkle  spare; 
And  ply  his  eye,  if  dry,  too  dry; 

And  slide  the  lashes  there; 
And  when  big  drops  begin  to  flow, 
Oh,  how  we  '11  dodge  the  flood,  oh  ho! — 

Who  cares  ? — I  don't ! — Do  you  ? 

The  moon  may  keep  the  earth  asleep — 

We  '11  twist  things  ere  we  go. 
The  beau  shall  toss  a  baby  cross, 

The  belle  shall  beat  her  beau; 
The  men  be  boys ;  and  boys  the  toys 

Of  girls  that  at  them  scream ; 
And  when  they  wake,  oh,  how  they  '11  shake 

To  find  it  all  a  dream ! 
They  '11  think  of  wind  and  fly  and  flea; 
But  not  of  you,  and  not  of  me — 

Who  cares? — I  don't! — Do  you? 

— Written  for  "A  Life  in  Song,"  I. 


324  SONGS  AND  HYMNS. 

LOVE  AND  TRUTH. 

COME  to  the  love  that  is  coming  now, 
Come  from  the  world  away; 
Come  to  the  source  of  joy,  and  bow, 

Bow  to  the  sweetest  sway. 
Find  but  love  for  the  heart  that  grieves, 
Love  for  the  work  one  never  leaves, 
Love  for  the  worth  that  work  achieves, 
Love;  and  woe  will  away. 

Come  to  the  truth  that  is  coming  now, 

Come  from  the  world  away; 
Come  to  the  source  of  right,  and  bow, 

Bow  to  the  wisest  sway. 
Find  in  the  way  where  all  is  light 
Truth  to  impel  the  soul  aright, 
Truth  to  make  all  that  awaits  it  bright, 

Truth;  and  doubt  will  away. 

Come  to  love,  and  wherever  you  wend, 

All  true  life  is  begun. 
Ever  in  bliss  toward  which  you  tend, 

Joy  and  the  right  are  one. 
Love — and  the  heart  shall  warmer  glow; 
Love — and  the  mind  shall  brighter  grow; 
Love  with  truth — and  the  soul  shall  go 

On  to  the  lasting  sun. 


THE  WORLD  THAT  WHIRLS  FOREVER.  325 

Come  to  the  truth,  and  come  as  you  may, 

All  of  love  is  begun. 
Whether  you  feel  or  think  your  way, 

Love  and  the  truth  are  one. 
Love  is  the  warmth,  and  truth  the  ray; 
Truth  is  the  light,  and  love  the  day; 
Come  to  either,  you  wend  your  way 

Under  the  lasting  sun. 

— Idem. 


THE  WORLD  THAT  WHIRLS  FOREVER. 

SEE  the  world  that  whirls  forever, 
Round  and  round  and  weary  never, 
Leaving  sinning,  glory  winning 

Through  its  ever  brightening  way. 
Oh,  in  worth  the  deeds  of  duty 
Rival  all  the  claims  of  beauty ! 
Onward  world,  with  steadfast  spinning, 

Learn  to  turn  a  perfect  day. 

Work  cannot  go  wrong  for  aye. 

Woes  but  roll  to  roll  away. 

World  of  faith,  the  years  are  dying 
In  which  clouds  about  thee  lying 
Robe  a  wondrous  waste  of  sighing, 
Empty  throes  of  vain  unrest. 


326  SONGS  AND  HYMNS. 

Life,  if  right,  whatever  bearing, 
Still  for  true  success  preparing, 
Must  outwit  the  wrong's  ensnaring. 

Faith  will  find  that  faith  is  blest; 

Wrestle  through  its  prayer  for  rest; 

Dwell  with  good  a  constant  guest. 

World  of  hope,  the  stars  are  o'er  thee. 
Dawn  is  waiting  just  before  thee. 
Heaven's  own  light,  thy  life  invoking, 

Every  promise  bright  reveals. 
Fast  shall  rays  that  days  are  sending 
Heaven  and  earth  in  one  be  blending; 
Showing  what  the  storm's  dark  cloaking, 

Tho'  with  rainbow  belt,  conceals. 

Night,  too,  blesses  him  who  feels 

'T  is  a  star  in  which  he  kneels. 

World  of  love,  the  heavens  above  thee 

Hold  the  clouds,  and  can  but  love  thee. 

Though  in  spring  the  storm  sweep  o'er  thee, 
April's  rain  is  autumn's  gain. 

Rock'd  by  wind  and  nursed  by  shower 

Life  will  grow  to  leaf  and  flower; 

Every  harvesting  before  thee 
Shows  the  vintage  is  but  rain 
Turn'd  to  wine  the  grapes  obtain 
From  the  floods  that  fill  the  plain. 


FATHER  OF  OUR  SPIRITS,  HEAR  US.     327 

Onward  world,  desponding  never, 
Round  and  round,  yet  onward  ever, 
On  where  sense  and  sorrow  sever, 

Onward  move  thy  mission  through. 
Wisest  deeds  thy  safety  highten. 
Wisest  words  thy  thoughts  enlighten. 
Wisest  views  thy  visions  brighten. 

Holy  wings  thy  way  pursue. 

Heavenly  outlines  loom  in  view. 

Bliss  is  dawning  down  the  blue. 

— Idem. 


FATHER  OF  OUR  SPIRITS,  HEAR  US. 

FATHER  of  our  spirits,  hear  us, 
And  in  mercy  now  draw  near  us, 
And  with  Thy  blest  presence  cheer  us, 

While  our  spirits  look  to  Thee. 
Thou  for  whom  the  stars  are  burning, 
Do  not,  Lord,  disdain  the  yearning 
Of  the  hearts  to  Thy  heart  turning, 
With  their  wants  their  only  plea. 

Long  in  doubt's  dark  ways  abiding, 
Lord,  we  need  Thy  light  and  guiding, 
Minds  to  know,  and  souls  confiding 
In  Thy  precious  truth  and  love. 


328  SONGS  AND  HYMNS. 

When  Thine  inward  voice  invited, 
And  desires  for  good  incited, 
We  have  still'd,  because  we  slighted 
All  that  call'd  our  souls  above. 

Even  if,  forsaking  pleasure, 

We  have  sought  for  truth  like  treasure, 

Oft  we  but  would  test  the  measure 

Of  what  our  own  strength  could  do; 
And,  beyond  our  best  endeavor, 
Full  assurance  found  we  never 
That,  if  wrong,  the  old  life  ever 

Could  be  cancelled  by  the  new. 

Naught  is  left  us,  Lord,  we  feel  it, 
Holy  writ  and  reason  seal  it, 
And  all  loving  lives  reveal  it, — 

But  to  cast  ourselves  on  Thee. 
Here  we  come  before  Thee  kneeling, 
Moved  by  far  too  little  feeling; 
Yet  to  grace  divine  appealing, 

Wilt  Thou,  Lord,  reject  our  plea? 

Nay,  our  souls  for  mercy  sighing, 
Think  of  Jesus,  living,  dying, 
And  they  know  Thy  love  replying 
Need  not  wait  for  worth  in  us. 


FATHER  OF  OUR  SPIRITS,  HEAR  US.  329 

With  our  strength  impair'd  and  sinking, 
From  each  nobler  duty  shrinking, 
Lord,  we  praise  Thee  most  in  thinking 
Thou  wilt  yet  receive  us  thus. 

Thou  wilt,  Lord,  from  Thy  high  station, 
Pardon  us,  and  send  salvation, 
Till  Thy  Spirit's  inspiration 

Make  us  all  we  ought  to  be. 
Void  of  good,  yet  Thou  canst  make  us 
Fill'd  with  what  Thou  wilt.     Oh,  take  us, 
Own  us,  hold  us,  nor  forsake  us, 

For  our  spirits  look  to  Thee. 

—Idem.,  III. 


THE  END. 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  O.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

THE  AZTEC  GOD,  AND  OTHER 
DRAMAS 

BY  GEORGE  L.  RAYMOND 
l6MO,  CLOTH  EXTRA,  $1.25 

%l  The  three  dramas  included  in  this  volume  represent  a  felicitous,  in 
tense,  and  melodious  expression  of  art  both  from  the  artistic  and  poetic 
point  of  view.  .  .  .  Mr.  Raymond's  power  is  above  all  that  of  psy 
chologist,  and  added  thereto  are  the  richest  products  of  the  imagination 
both  in  form  and  spirit.  The  book  clearly  discloses  the  work  of  a  man 
possessed  of  an  extremely  refined  critical  poise,  of  a  culture  pure  and 
classical,  and  a  sensitive  conception  of  what  is  sweetest  and  most  ravish 
ing  in  tone-quality.  The  most  delicately  perceptive  ear  could  not  detect 
a  ilaw  in  the  mellow  and  rich  music  of  the  blank  verse." — Piiblic  Opinion. 

"  It  is  not  with  the  usual  feeling  of  disappointment  that  one  lays  down 
this  little  book.  One  reads  '  The  Aztec  God  '  with  pleasure.  .  .  . 
'  Cecil  the  Seer'  is  a  drama  of  the  occult.  In  it  the  author  attempts  to 
describe  the  conditions  in  the  spiritual  world  exactly  as  they  exist  accord 
ing  to  coinciding  testimony  of  Swedenborg,  of  the  modern  Spiritualist,  and 
of  all  supposed  to  have  explored  them  in  trance  states.  Indirectly, 
perhaps,  the  whole  is  a  much  needed  satire  upon  the  social,  political,  and 
religious  conditions  of  our  present  materialistic  life.  .  .  .  In 'Columbus' 
one  finds  a  work  which  it  is  difficult  to  avoid  injuring  with  fulsome 
praise.  The  character  of  the  great  discoverer  is  portrayed  grandly  and 
greatly.  .  .  .  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  how  anyone  who  cares  for  that 
which  is  best  in  literature  .  .  .  could  fail  to  be  strengthened  and 
uplifted  by  this  heroic  treatment  of  one  of  the  great  stories  of  the  world." 
—N.  Y.  Press. 

"One  must  unreservedly  commend  the  clear,  vigorous  statement,  the 
rhythmic  facility,  the  copious  vocabulary,  and  the  unvarying  elevated 
tone  of  the  three  dramas.  .  .  .  The  poetic  quality  reveals  itself  in 
breadth  of  vision  and  picturesque  imagery.  One  is,  indeed,  not  seldom 
in  peril  of  forgetting  plot  ana  character-action  in  these  dramas,  because 
of  the  glowing  imagination." — Home  Journal. 

"  The  time  and  place  make  the  play  an  historic  study  of  interest,  aside 
from  its  undoubted  high  poetic  quality  and  elevation  of  thought.  .  . 
The  metre  of  the  dramas  is  Shakespearian,  and  that  master's  influence  is 
constantly  apparent.  It  is  needless  to  say  to  those  who  know  the  author's 
remarkable  abilities  that  the  plays  are  substantial  and  reflect  perfectly 
the  author's  mind." — Portland  Transcript. 

"  The  conquest  of  Mexico  .  .  .  has  furnished  the  world  with  themes 
for  wonder  and  romance.  These  Professor  Raymond  has  brought  into  a 
thrilling  story.  .  .  .  His  studies  in  art  and  harmony  give  him  a 
master's  hand  to  paint  the  pictures  that  delineate  the  children  of  the  sun." 
— Dayton  Journal. 

"  The  work  is  one  of  unusual  power  and  brilliancy,  and  the  thinker^  or 
the  student  of  literature  will  find  the  book  deserving  of  careful  study." — 
Toledo  Blade. 

"  A  work  of  high  poetic  art,  and  worthy  of  the  reputation  of  its  accom 
plished  author." — N.  Y.  Observer. 

"  Poetical  compositions  of  an  unusually  high  order  both  in  the  ex 
pression  and  in  the  dramatic  conception."—  Denver  Times. 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

A  LIFE  IN  SONG 

BY  GEORGE  L.  RAYMOND 


l6MO,  CLOTH  EXTRA,  $1.25 


"  An  age-worn  poet,  dying  amid  strangers  in  a  humble  village  home, 
leaves  the  record  of  his  life  in  a  pile  of  manuscript  poems.  These  are 
claimed  by  a  friend  and  comrade  of  the  poet,  but,  at  the  request  of  the 
cottagers,  he  reads  them  over  before  taking  them  away.  The  poet's  life 
is  divided  into  seven  books  or  *  notes,'  because  seven  notes  seem  to  make 
up  the  gamut  of  life.  .  .  .  This  is  the  simple  but  unique  plan,  .  .  . 
which  .  .  .  forms  but  the  mere  outline  of  a  remarkably  fine  study  of 
the  hopes,  aspirations,  and  disappointments  of  life,  ...  an  American 
modern  life.  .  .  .  The  author  sees  poetry,  and  living  poetry,  where 
the  most  of  men  see  prose.  .  .  .  The  objection,  so  often  brought 
against  our  young  poets,  that  form  outweighs  the  thought,  cannot  be 
urged  in  this  instance,  for  the  poems  of  Prof.  Raymond  are  full  of  keen 
and  searching  comments  upon  life.  Neither  can  the  objection  be  urged 
of  the  lack  of  the  human  element.  'A  Life  in  Song'  is  not  only  dra 
matic  in  tendency,  but  is  singularly  realistic  and  acute.  .  .  .  The 
volume  will  appeal  to  a  large  class  of  renders  by  reason  of  its  clear,  musi 
cal,  flexible  verse,  its  fine  thought,  and  its  intense  human  interest." — 
Boston  Transcript. 

"  Professor  Raymond  is  no  dabbler  in  the  problem  of  the  human  spirit, 
and  no  tyro  in  the  art  of  word  painting,  as  those  who  know  his  prose 
works  can  testify.  These  pages  contain  a  mine  of  rich  and  disciplined 
reflection,  and  abound  in  beautiful  passages." — Hartford  Theological 
Seminary  Record. 

"  Here  are  lines  which,  if  printed  in  letters  of  gold  upon  the  front  of 
every  pulpit,  and  practised  by  every  one  behind  one,  would  transform  the 
face  of  the  theological  world.  ...  In  short,  if  you  are  in  search  of 
ideas  that  are  unconventional  and  up-to-date,  get  '  A  Life  in  Song,'  and 
read  it." — Unity. 

u  Some  day  Dr.  Raymond  will  be  universally  recognized  as  one  of  the 
leaders  in  the  new  thought-movement.  .  .  .  He  is  a  poet  in  the  truest 
sense.  His  ideals  are  ever  of  the  highest,  and  his  interpretation  is  of  the 
clearest  and  sweetest.  He  has  richness  of  genius,  intensity  of  human 
feeling,  and  the  refinement  of  culture.  His  lines  are  alive  with  action, 
luminous  with  thought  and  passion,  and  melodious  with  music." — 
Cleveland  World. 

"  The  main  impulse  and  incident  of  the  life  are  furnished  by  the  enlist 
ment  of  the  hero  in  the  anti-slavery  cause.  The  story  of  his  love  is  also 
a  leading  factor,  and  is  beautifully  told.  The  poem  displays  a  mastery 
of  poetic  rhythm  and  construction,  and,  as  a  who'e,  is  pervaded  by  the 
imaginative  quality  which  lifts  '  a  life  '  into  the  region  of  poetry, — the 
peculiar  quality  which  marks  Wordsworth." — Christian  Intelligencer. 

"  It  is  a  great  work,  and  shows  that  America  has  a  great  poet.  .  .  . 
A  century  From  now  this  poem  will  be  known  and  quoted  wherever  fine 
thought  is  appreciated,  or  brave  deeds  sung."—"W!fj/wi»  Rural. 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

BY  GEORGE  L.  RAYMOND 


l6MO,  CLOTH  EXTRA,  $1.25 


"  In  the  construction  of  the  ballad,  he  has  given  some  notable  exam 
ples  of  what  may  be  wrought  of  native  material  by  one  who  has  a  tasteful 
ear  and  practised  hand.  If  he  does  not  come  up  to  the  standard  of  the 
ancient  ballad,  which  is  the  model,  he  has  done  as  well  as  any  of  the 
younger  American  authors  who  have  attempted  this  kind  of  work,  and 
there  is  true  enjoyment  in  all  that  he  has  written.  Of  his  other  poems, 
the  dramatic  poem,  '  Haydn,'  is  finished  in  form,  and  has  literary  value, 
as  well  as  literary  power.  — Boston  Globe. 

11  The  author  has  achieved  a  very  unusual  success,  a  success  to  which 
genuine  poetic  power  has  not  more  contributed  than  wide  reading  and 
extensive  preparation.  The  ballads  overflow,  not  only  with  the  general, 
but  the  very  particular,  truths  of  history." — Cincinnati  Times. 

"  It  may  well  find  readers  in  abundance  .  .  .  for  the  sake  of  the 
many  fine  passages  which  it  contains.  .  .  .  *  Ideals  made  Real '  has 
one  point  of  very  high  excellence  ...  we  have  in  the  conception  of 
the  character  of  Edith  the  work  of  a  genuinely  dramatic  poet.  .  .  .  In 
Edith  we  have  a  thoroughly  masculine  intellect  in  a  thoroughly  feminine 
soul,  not  merely  by  the  author's  assertion,  but  by  actual  exhibition. 
Every  word  that  Edith  speaks,  every  act  tha_t  she  does,  is  in  accord  with 
this  conception.  ...  It  is  sufficient,  without  douDt,  to  give  life  to  a 
less  worthy  performance,  and  it  proves  beyond  doubt  that  Mr.  Raymond 
is  the  possessor  of  a  poetic  faculty  which  is  worthy  of  the  most  careful 
and  conscientious  cultivation." — iV.  y.  Evening  Post. 

41 A  very  thoughtful  study  of  character  .  .  .  great  knowledge  of 
.  .  .  aims  and  motives.  .  .  .  Such  as  read  this  poem  will  derive 
from  it  a  benefit  more  lasting  than  the  mere  pleasure  of  the  moment." — 
London  Spectator. 

"  Mr.  Raymond  is  a  poet  emphatically,  and  not  a  scribbler  in  rhyme.' 
London  Literary  Churchman. 

"  His  is  no  mere  utterance  of  dreams  and  fancies.  His  poetry  takes 
hold  on  life  ;  it  enters  the  arena  where  its  grandest  and  purest  motives 
are  discussed,  and  by  the  vi^or  and  beauty  of  the  language  it  holds  itself 
on  a  level  with  the  highest  themes.  .  .  .  Every  thoughtful  reader  .  .  . 
will  wish  that  the  poems  had  been  longer  or  that  there  had  been  more  of 
them.  It  would  be  possible  to  quote  passage  after  passage  of  rare 
beauty." — Utica  Herald. 

4*  .  .  .  Rhythmical  in  its  flow  and  deliciously  choice  in  language 
.  .  .  indicating  a  deep  acquaintance  with  human  nature,  while  there 
is  throughout  a  tone  that  speaks  plainly  of  a  high  realization  of  the  divine 
purpose  in  life  .  .  .  Not  the  least  charming  characteristic  is  its  rich 
ness  in  pen-and-ink  pictures  marked  by  rare  beauty  and  presenting  irre 
sistibly  that  which  the  poe_t  saw  in  his  mind's  eye.  .  .  .  We  confidently 
promise  that  any  one  taking  it  up  will  enjoy  the  reading  throughout,  that 
is,  if  there  is  any  poetry  in  him." — Boston  Evening.  Journal. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


REC'D  LO 


W- 


i.IO, '20 


Linhart 


1 88145 


50m-7,'19 


